The Journal
by Oxymoronic Alliteration
Summary: A Marine Pfc. is found dead at a local hotel where Tim will be attending a conference for mystery/crime novelists, forcing Tim to go undercover for the weekend.
1. Chapter 1

The paper of the book felt old and wilted beneath his fingers as he thumbed through it once more. Of course, that could be because it was at least sixty-five years old; so old that he feared the pages may rip at his touch. The sloppy handwriting that filled the pages recounted tales of family and friends and girls and films, before slowly transitioning into stories of the war, of battles and pains and woes. The only page that stuck out from the rest was the loose page that had fallen out that day when he'd found the journal in his late grandfather's attic. That page was tucked into the back of the journal, folded in half.

Nathan wasn't looking forward to this. He wished he had never mentioned the loose page in the first place, that he had simply stuck it back in and kept it his own little secret. He had started this, and now he had to stop it.

From above he could hear footsteps. It was long after midnight and he couldn't think of anyone else it could be. He carefully tucked the journal away in his tool box before the footsteps reached the door.

The door creaked open, the light from the hallway shining on Nathan as he stood in the cold, dark basement. The person slowly descended the stairs to where Nathan stood. "Where's the book?"

"It's at home. I didn't think I should bring it."

"Are we ready?" the voice asked. When Nathan didn't answer, the voice added, "You're not backing out, are you?"

"I just think we should forget about it," Nathan said softly.

"Forget about it? Are you nuts?" the voice exclaimed. "We're talking about millions of dollars here."

"We don't know _what_ we're talking about! It's a page from an ancient journal. For all we know the money's gone."

The voice was eerily quiet for a moment. "So you just want to walk away from it?"

"I just think we're getting into something we don't need to."

"Fine," the voice said curtly. There was no missing the malice and anger in the tone. "You don't have to be a part of it. If you want out, you're out."

"I don't just want out," Nathan replied. "I want the whole thing dropped. I don't want anyone getting hurt and I don't want you to do anything you'll regret." Nathan made for the door, but his companion blocked his way.

"You can't stop me from doing anything."

"No, but I _can_ go to the authorities and report you." Nathan hoped he sounded threatening to some degree.

"You wouldn't," the voice said uncertainly. "To a friend?"

"I don't want to. I just think you're getting in over your head." He pushed past the person and made for the stairs. He'd only made it to the fifth step when he felt a hand grab his elbow.

"You're making a mistake!" the voice hissed, trying to pull him back. "Let's talk about this."

Nathan shook his elbow free. "There's nothing to talk about." He went further up the steps, telling his companion, "I'm just going to forget that this ever happened, and I hope you do the same." A moment later the object struck his head and all went black.

Nathan's body fell limply onto the steps. His companion shoved the body with a foot, sending it sprawling to the bottom of the stairs. The person then ascending the stairs and gently closed the door, leaving the lifeless body alone in the basement.


	2. Chapter 2

"So tell me, Probie Drew, what exactly does one do at a writers' convention?"

Tim ignored his colleague's comparison of him to teen girl investigator "Nancy Drew" and went back to finishing up his work for the week. It was Friday and he was hoping to leave early so he could get settled in at the hotel where the Mystery and Crime Novelists Association convention was being held that weekend. He'd been looking forward to this weekend for the past two months, and he wasn't going to let anyone – least of all Tony – sour his mood. "It's just a place for writers to meet and discuss their work, get their work out there for publishers, learn from others on how to better improve their own writing," he explained. "Some of the best mystery writers will be there to give lectures, read excerpts of upcoming novels, and answer questions."

"Sounds like a blast," Tony said sarcastically. "Why not just sit in on a class at Waverly University? It wouldn't cost you nearly as much."

"True, but I wouldn't be able to hear Randy Veux talk about his upcoming novel."

"Who?"

"Randy Veux. The Edgar winner who wrote _By the Light of the Moon_," Tim told him as though it were the most obvious thing in the world. "He's been on the bestseller list for years now!"

"You don't know who Gary Cooper is, but you expect the name 'Randy Veux' to ring a bell with me?"

"McGee, you are already a published writer," Ziva pointed out, "so what do you hope to accomplish by attending this convention?"

"I may be published, but that doesn't mean I can't still learn and improve my writing."

"Well, I can't argue with you there, Elf Lord." Tony leaned his seat back, placing his feet atop his desk. "Well, while you're listening to some old guy talk for an hour about how to best set the mood for your crime novel, I'll be setting a different kind of mood for a much different purpose."

Tim and Ziva shared a look and an eye roll. "You're so witty, Tony," Tim told him wryly.

"It's a gift, Probie."

"What's that Tony?" Gibbs asked as he walked into the bull pen.

"My acute ability to asses crime scenes, boss," Tony replied, quickly removing his feet from his desk.

"Yeah, DiNozzo? I hope you've still got the gift, then. Dead Marine found in an Alexandria hotel. Gear up!"

Tim grabbed his gun and badge, securing them in place as he trailed behind them. "What hotel, boss?"

"Hotel Monaco," Gibbs told them as he hit the elevator button. "Ducky and Palmer are already on their way."

"Hotel Monaco?" Tim repeated.

"That's what I said, McGee. You got a hearing problem?"

"No, boss, I don't," Tim assured him as the other three stepped on to the elevator. "Though, uh, I guess you didn't mean that as a serious question."

"The doors are closing, McGee."

Tim slid in as the doors closed. "It's just, uh, that's the hotel where I'm staying this weekend."

"Are you sure?" Ziva asked.

"Positive." Tim pulled out his reservation information from his bag and handed it over. "That's where the convention is being held."

"You think the murder has anything to do with the convention?" Tony asked, grabbing the paper from Tim's hand.

"At this point," Gibbs cut in, "we don't know what we're dealing with."

"Maybe it's staged. A publicity stunt for the convention," Tony suggested. A steel-eyed glare from Gibbs shot down his idea. "Or not."

"We do _not_ play pretend at NCIS."

* * *

"What have we got, Duck?" Gibbs asked gruffly as he entered the cool basement of the hotel. Below him lay a young man sprawled across the ground dressed in dirt-covered coveralls with the name "Nathan" monogrammed on them.

"A young man whose life was tragically cut short." Ducky was already stooping over the body with the liver probe. "He met his demise…approximately eight hours ago."

"02:00," Gibbs muttered, marking it down. "That's a strange time for people to be down in the basement of a hotel."

"He was a maintenance man for the hotel, so it isn't so strange for him to be down here. Now if he wasn't alone…"

"Someone took a tumble," Tony said as he made his way down the stairs, followed closely by Ziva and Tim. He reached out and grabbed the railing of the stairs. "Guess we need to be careful."

"It does look that way, doesn't it?" Ducky commented.

"You think this wasn't an accident, Ducky?"

"After working with Gibbs so long, Anthony, I've come to suspect murder until proven otherwise." He gently lifted the head up. "This may be of some interest," he said, pointing to the crown of the head. "The skull was cracked open here, yet when we found him he was lying face down. There was no blood on the floor indicating that his head had struck it."

"Maybe he hit one of the stairs on the way down?" Tim suggested. Looking down, he could see an occasional blood stain on the steps.

"Or maybe this hit his head," Ziva called from beneath the stairs. She emerged, holding a bloody lead pipe in her gloved hand.

"Well, that kind of kills any theory of an accident," Tony commented.

"Tony, sketch. Ziva, dust for fingerprints. McGee, get pictures," Gibbs barked out before turning back to Ducky. "Anything else you can tell me?"

"There are no defensive wounds that I can see. If he was indeed struck, then there is a good chance he knew his attacker."

"Well, he works here, so it may be another worker." He glanced around the basement, realizing that a certain person was missing. "Where is Palmer?"

"Mr. Palmer had to return to NCIS because he seemed to have forgotten to replace the gurney in the back of the van," Ducky said curtly.

"McGee! When Ducky and Palmer get the body on the gurney, I want you leaving with them."

"Me?" Tim asked. "Why?"

"Because, I don't want the hotel staff seeing you and associating you with NCIS. You're staying here this weekend and we may need you to keep an eye out for anything suspicious. I'd rather them not be on their guard around you."

"But, uh, boss, I'm not exactly here on vacation–"

"Don't worry McGee, I'll make sure you get compensated for any work you do."

"That's not quite what I meant."

"McGee, are you going to stand here arguing with me or are you going to get to work?"

Tim was quiet for a second. "I'll start taking, uh, pictures…" He walked over to the tool box that lay open on the floor across the way. "The weapon may have come from here," he called out as he gingerly opened it. Atop the array of tools was a small book covered in dark brown. He opened it and read aloud the first page. "This journal is the property of George Robinson."

"Victim's name is Nathan Robinson," Gibbs told him as he neared.

"Could be a relative's," Ziva said.

"Probably," Tim replied, flipping through the pages. "This is from the 1940's." As he stood to hold the journal out to Gibbs, a loose page in the back fell out to the floor. Tim leaned down to grab it, but Tony snatched it up before he could.

"Ooo, what have we here?" The senior field agent opened the folded page. On one side was a crudely drawn map with words written in some sort of a secret code made up of numbers, letters, and shapes. An X sat in one area of the map. "Yo-ho-ho and a bottle of rum! We've got ourselves a pirate!"

"What does that say on the back?" Ziva asked peering at the paper.

Tony turned it over and, in the most ominous voice he could muster, read it aloud. "Congratulations to you who holds the map! In your hands you hold a map that will lead you to a treasure beyond your imagination. However, to understand the map you must first find the key which lies in Clyde Wynant's journal. Find the key and you will unlock the door to the riches."

"Well, sounds like a bit of intrigue!" Ducky said from his place by the body. "Very mysterious. That name, Clyde Wynant, it rings a bell."

"Old friend of yours, Ducky?"

"It's possible, Timothy."

"I'm still not sure this wasn't faked for McSherlock's convention thing."

"Oh, Tony! Do you really think they would kill someone just for publicity?" Ziva asked.

"Maybe they just used an old body. Recycling is all the rage!" Tony let out a grunt as Gibbs' hand connected to the back of his head. "Sorry, boss."

"I'm going to talk to the hotel staff members. Tony, Ziva: when you guys finish up, meet me up there. McGee, when you get back to headquarters, find any information you can on Nathan Robinson, George Robinson, and this Clyde Wynant guy. When you've finished that, get wired up. You're going to be our eyes and ears this weekend."

And that was that.


	3. Chapter 3

Gibbs could tell that Rodney Toole, the hotel manager, was not happy with having federal agents skulking about the hotel. "People come to this hotel to relax and enjoy themselves, Agent Gibbs. They do not want to see police walking around."

"Mr. Toole, we can't leave until we know who killed Pfc. Robinson."

"It's obvious what happened. He slipped and fell and hit his head. We don't have murderers here, Agent Gibbs."

"We have reason to believe his death was not accidental. Now either talk to me or you'll never see NCIS leave this hotel."

The manager pursed his lips, but beckoned Gibbs to follow him into a back office. Rodney sat behind a desk and motioned to an empty chair across from him. "What do you need to know?"

"Tell me about Pfc. Robinson."

"He was a good worker. Never gave me trouble and did what was asked of him."

"Was he close to anyone in particular?"

Rodney shrugged. "He was a nice guy and made an effort to get along with everyone. The staff here tends to be very close."

"Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt him?"

"No, Agent Gibbs. Like I told you, he was a good worker and a nice guy. If there was any trouble going on with another worker here, he didn't mention it to me."

"Who found the body?"

"Nina, one of our maids. She was going down to smoke – for which she has been reprimanded, I can assure you – and she found him lying there."

"I'll need to talk to her and to the rest of your staff."

"Yes, of course," Rodney said with a sigh. "I'll give you a list of our employees. As for Nina, you'll find her in the break room. I think the poor girl was scared half to death."

Gibbs stood to go. "If you think of anything, Mr. Toole, no matter how trivial you think it may be, give us a call."

"I will, Agent Gibbs, so long as you promise me that your agents won't be spying about the hotel and harassing my staff and my guests. We have a prestigious convention this weekend and I do not want anything to ruin it."

Gibbs grinned knowingly. "Of course, Mr. Toole."

* * *

"So you opened the door to the basement and saw a body down there," Ziva repeated as she spoke to the poor maid who'd had the displeasure of discovering the body. "Then what?"

"I ran down to see if he was still alive," she said, shakily exhaling a stream of smoke. "Then I saw the blood and freaked. I ran up the stairs, screaming bloody murder…no pun intended."

"How much did you know about Pfc. Robinson?"

"I know that he's probably seen more death than most of the guys who work here. Nathan was in Iraq and he saw two buddies killed in bombings." She took another drag on her cigarette. "He was much more sociable than I would think for someone who's been in war. I mean, he wasn't one of those stoic, closed off guys who blames their shitty life on the war and on the military. He was proud of his time in the Marines. I think his grandfather was a Marine or something."

"Is his grandfather George Robinson?"

"Maybe," Nina told her. "I don't really remember a name, just that his grandfather was a POW in World War II. I remember the guy died a couple of months back and Nathan was really broken up about it. The guy was his hero."

"Did he have any enemies?"

"Nathan?" Nina snorted. "Hardly. Like I told you, he was a sociable guy. I can't remember seeing him ever angry at someone."

"Who was he friends with?"

"Just about everyone, I guess. He and one of the front desk clerks, Matthew Keach, were close. They sometimes have little poker games with a couple of other guys. Then Julie, the event coordinator for the hotel, talked with him a lot. I think he had a thing for her."

* * *

"Would it be hard for a hotel guest to get down to the basement?" Tony asked. He was interviewing one of the janitors, Tommy Green.

"Not really." Tommy was mopping and barely even acknowledged the presence of the federal agent. "Once we hit about 10:00pm, things get really lax around here. It wouldn't be hard for someone to sneak down there. But why would they want to?"

"Maybe Pfc. Robinson saw something he shouldn't have?"

"It's possible," Tommy conceded, "but I have a hard time believing it."

"How close were you with Robinson?"

"We played poker with a couple of the other guys sometimes. He was a nice guy. It's a shame what happened to him."

"Did you hear anything last night that might be suspicious?"

"Wasn't here. I got in at around 7:00 this morning."

"Can you think of anyone who would want Robinson dead?"

Tommy paused and considered this. "Nope, can't say so. He was a friendly guy. I mean, he sometimes grated your nerves with all of that 'sunshine and rainbows' crap, but he was friendly nonetheless."

"Was he close with anyone?"

"Matthew Keach, one of our front desk clerks. They sometimes catch rides together."

* * *

"Had you noticed any strange behavior in Pfc. Robinson?" Gibbs asked Matthew Keach. The man had arrived for work only minutes before and was still reeling from the news of Nathan's death.

"He'd been distracted lately," Matthew admitted. "Sometimes I'd see him staring off into space just thinking."

"What was he thinking about?"

"No idea. I'd snap him out of it and he'd just mumble something about having a lot on his mind."

"Do you think he may have been involved with something he shouldn't have been?"

"Never," Matthew insisted. "Nathan would never do anything illegal or wrong. He was a model citizen."

"How well did you know him?"

"We've been working together for the past year. We live near each other, so we sometimes car pool to save gas. After a while, you just start to know someone."

"Did he ever mention a journal to you?"

"Yeah, his grandfather passed away a couple of months ago and Nathan got his old journal. The guy fought in World War II and Nathan kind of worshipped him."

"What did he tell you about the journal?"

"Just that it was a good read."

"Who else was he friends with?"

"Just about everyone, Agent Gibbs. He'd sit in on some poker games with me and some of the other guys. He wasn't very good and he usually lost more than he won."

"That it?"

Matthew looked pensive for a moment. "He and Julie Lambard, our events coordinator, were a bit flirty with each other. Nothing came of it as far as he told me, but I do know he was interested in her."

"Were you on desk duty last night?"

"No, Agent Gibbs. I haven't worked since Wednesday afternoon."

Gibbs handed the young man a card. "If you can think of anything, please call."

"I will," he promised. "I hope you find the person who did this."

* * *

The trio reconvened outside to compare notes. "Model citizen," Gibbs repeated.

"That seems to be the consensus," Ziva agreed. "The man is sleeky clean."

"'Squeaky clean,' Ziva," Tony corrected. "He was definitely closest with the desk clerk."

"Matthew Keach," Gibbs provided.

"Yeah, him. Other than that, he was friendly with everyone and he sat in on a few poker games with other guys."

"I was told he and the hotel's events coordinator were _very_ friendly," Ziva said. "But I haven't talked to her."

"Ms. Lambard isn't going to be at the hotel until tonight, so I say we pay her a visit." Ziva saw Tony's face light up at the idea of interviewing a young and likely attractive woman. "DiNozzo!"

"Yes, boss!"

"We'll drop you off. I want you to check up on what McGee's found so far."

"Uh, boss, with all due respect, I think my skills would be better put to use interviewing Ms. Lambard."

Gibbs gave Tony a look. "DiNozzo, the last thing I need is for you to be distracted by a sweet smile and a nice pair of legs."


	4. Chapter 4

"Tell me you've got good news, McGeek."

"I researched the life of our dead Marine and he did indeed have a grandfather by the name of George Robinson." Tim handed Tony the files he'd collected on both their dead Marine and his grandfather. "George Robinson was born in 1921 in Arkansas. He joined the Marine Corps right out of high school and was sent to the Philippines. In 1941 he and his unit were captured by the Japanese in Bataan and were part of the Death March. He stayed in a Japanese prison camp for almost two years. After returning home, he married his high school sweetheart, Mary Warren, and they moved to Maryland where he opened a furniture store. They had three children: George Jr., Laura, and Walter. The latter child had one son, Nathan, who followed in his grandfather's footsteps, joining right out of high school.

"Nathan definitely struggled a bit, but he had a great passion for the military. His C.O. said that he was best at mechanical tasks and did a lot of great work in repairing military vehicles. He was wounded while in Iraq two years ago and was honorably discharged. Since then, he has worked at the hotel as a maintenance man and has kept busy. He has no criminal record, no skeletons in his closet…nothing."

"Yeah, that seemed to be the consensus of his co-workers. That, unfortunately, gives us no leads."

"Maybe he was repairing something in one of the rooms and saw something that one of the guests didn't want him to see?"

"Already thought of that, McGoo." Tony plopped a list of names on his desk. "This is a list of all guests who were at the hotel last night. Now what about Clyde Wynant?"

"Couldn't find that name tied to George or Nathan Robinson. There is no mention of a Clyde Wynant anywhere in the military database and the name didn't come up in either of their pasts."

"Gibbs isn't going to like that," Tony warned. "Go down that list of guests and see what you can come up with."

"Me? What about you?"

"Gibbs' orders, not mine."

Tim's phone rang before he could reply to Tony. "McGee."

"Are you wired up yet?"

"Uh, not yet boss…I was looking up info on our dead Marine and –"

"Go down to Abby and get everything you'll need."

"But I still need to go through the list of hotel guests."

"Give that to Tony. I want you over at the hotel as soon as possible, McGee. Got it?"

Tim smiled. "Yes, boss." He clicked the phone closed and grabbed the list from off his desk and tossed it to Tony. "I've got to get down to Abby's lab and then get over to the hotel, so you'll have to take over the list. Gibbs' orders, not mine." He grabbed his things, wanting to leave as soon as Abby had set him up with an earwig and receiver. "Good luck with giving him the news that we have nothing!"

* * *

Julie Lambard seemed very surprised when she opened the door and found NCIS standing outside of her apartment. "What happened?"

Gibbs and Ziva exchanged glances. "What makes you think something has happened?" Gibbs asked the young woman.

"Federal agents don't drop by just to chat."

"Nathan Robinson," Ziva said. She saw the name register in Julie's eyes. "He's dead."

"That's horrible! What happened?"

"May we come in?" Gibbs asked. Julie nodded, stepping to the side to let them pass.

"Please sit," she said, leading them to a small couch. "Can I get either of you anything?"

"No, thank you," Gibbs said. "We just need to ask you a few questions."

"Of course." She took a seat in the chair and grabbed a steaming mug of tea that had been set on the end table.

"When did you last see Pfc. Robinson, Miss Lambard?"

Julie gently set down her mug of tea. "It was two nights ago, Agent Gibbs."

"What did the two of you talk about?"

"Just the convention. We're having the Mystery and Crime Writers Association in the hotel this weekend and I've been doing everything I could to make sure it runs smoothly. We were having some electrical issues with the overhead lighting in the ballroom and Nathan offered to stay behind and get it fixed. He's really a sweet guy…_was_ a sweet guy."

Ziva crossed her arms, not sure what to make of the young woman who sat across from her. "We were told that Pfc. Robinson was interested in you."

Julie ducked her head down. "He flirted with me and I admit I kind of enjoyed his attention, but we never went out or anything. I hardly knew him outside of my work at the hotel."

"Were you at the hotel last night?" Gibbs asked.

"No, I was out last night."

"Anyone who can verify that?"

Julie looked at him stunned. "Of course. I was with the heads of the Mystery and Crime Novelists Association. We were going over the finishing details for the convention." She looked back and forth between Gibbs and Ziva. "Am I a suspect?"

"We're just getting everyone's alibi, Miss Lambard," Gibbs assured her. "We want to investigate every possibility."

"If Nathan really was murdered, I doubt it had anything to do with anyone who worked there. He was friends with everyone."

"Yes, that's what we've been told. It's hard to believe he didn't rub _anyone_ the wrong way," Ziva commented.

Gibbs handed the young woman a card. "If you think of anything or if you see anything, please give us a call."

"I will, Agent Gibbs," she promised before showing them out.

"She was surprised," Ziva commented as the two made their way down the hall. "I don't think she knew he had been killed."

"She didn't," Gibbs agreed. "But I also think something was a bit off about her."

"Maybe they were having a secret affair?"

Gibbs jabbed the down button for the elevator. "I want you to pull the security cameras from the hotel and call the crime writers association thing to verify Miss Lambard's alibi."

* * *

"Did they talk to you?"

"They talked to everyone."

"And what did you say?"

"Nothing."

"Are you positive?"

"Yes. What? Don't you trust me?"

"I don't know. Should I?"

"How can you even say that?"

"I can't believe you left the damn lead pipe there."

"Relax! I was wearing gloves, so there won't be fingerprints."

"That's not the point! Now they know it wasn't an accident. God, you can be stupid sometimes. Where's the map?"

"He said he left it at his apartment."

"Get it."

"I will!"

_Click_


	5. Chapter 5

"I hope you enjoy your stay, sir."

Tim nodded to the porter, slipping him a five before closing the door. He set his bag on the chair that sat beside the queen-sized bed before assessing the room. It was certainly different from most hotels he'd stayed in, though one couldn't really compare Holiday Inn with this hotel. The color scheme of the room wasn't as subdue as most hotel rooms, opting instead for colors that popped. The bed was luxuriously furnished with pillows and comforters that felt soft to the touch. Across from it, a large screen TV sat atop a beautiful cabinet that contained a fully stocked mini-fridge. The bathroom was large, containing both a Jacuzzi tub and a shower, as well as a large mirror over a black marble sink. A soft bathrobe hung on the back of the door.

Tim wished he could enjoy the room, but this was no longer a vacation for him. Dutifully, he pulled the earwig and receiver from his bag and set himself up. "Abby? You there?"

"Here, McGee!"

"McGee! What have you got so far?"

"Nothing yet, boss. I just got to my room."

"Did you notice anything strange?"

"Not really. When I was checking in, the desk clerk was talking in a hushed tone to one of the janitors and I heard the name Nathan, but they shut up when they saw me."

"Well, they do work there and probably knew him," Abby reminded both Tim and Gibbs, "so it's not unusual for them to be talking about it and not wanting any of the guests to know about it."

"McGee, give me a run down of this convention. What's scheduled and who is going to be in attendance?"

Tim grabbed his schedule from his bag and looked down the list. "Well, tonight is a meet and greet dinner in the ballroom starting at 5:00pm. Then tomorrow we have speakers in various parts of the hotel from 11:00am to 4:00pm."

"Who is speaking?"

"Leslie Fargo, Craig Parlay, and Randy Veux. Then tomorrow night is a formal dinner where they'll be giving out awards for excellence in writing for the past year."

"Recipients?"

"Don't know, boss."

"What about Sunday?"

"Sunday they're having a brunch from 10:00am to noon with some prominent publishers. It's a way for people who haven't had anything published to get their stuff out there."

"So how does someone get invited to attend this?"

"Well, I was invited because of my publisher, but you don't have to be published to attend. My guess is you just have to visit their website and join their mailing list."

"I want you to keep in contact with Abby at all times when you're downstairs. If you see or hear something, report it in to her."

"Yes, boss."

* * *

"Ziva, how does Gibbs feel about coincidences?"

Ziva glanced over at Tony, pausing the video footage that had been pulled from the hotel security cameras. "He does not believe in them, Tony."

"Exactly!"

"Would you care to explain to me what you are going on about?"

"I've been looking through the list of guests staying in the hotel and came across this one. Randy Veux!"

Ziva furrowed her brow momentarily before looking up. "Oh! That is the writer McGee was talking about!" Ziva walked around to Tony's desk and glanced at the computer screen.

"More than that, Ziva. Veux worked at George Robinson's furniture store for three years while he was in college."

"So he knew the deceased's grandfather and was staying at the hotel last night." She pondered this as she returned to the security videos. "It _could_ be just a coincidence."

"What could?" Gibbs asked as he walked into the squad room. "Tony, you finished going through that guest list?"

"Yes, boss, and I was just telling Ziva that one of the speakers at Probie's writers thing knew George Robinson and, since we all know how you feel about coincidences, well, I think it's something we should at least look into."

"I agree, DiNozzo. Get down to Abby's lab and tell McGee."

"Gibbs!" Ziva stood, grabbing the remote and pulling security footage up on the plasma.

"Did you see the murderer?"

"No, there are no cameras near the basement, so it's unlikely we'll find the murderer that way. I did, however, find this." She paused the tape and zoomed in on the face of a man entering the building.

"That's Tommy Green," Tony said. "He's one of the janitors."

"Yeah, DiNozzo, I know that. Why is this important?"

"According to Tony's notes, Green claimed he had gotten to the hotel at 7:00am this morning. This shows him coming in a little before 01:00 and leaving at 03:05."

"Puts him in the hotel at the estimated time of the murder," Tony said.

"Tony, get down to the lab and relay your information to McGee. Ziva, hunt down Mr. Green and ask him why he lied about his whereabouts at the time of the murder. Go!"

* * *

Tim looked himself over in the mirror. He was ready to go down and meet with his fellow writers, but he wanted to give himself the once over. Sure, he was published, but he still wanted to make a good impression. "Not bad," he muttered to himself.

"What's not bad, McGeek?" Tony's voice rung in his ears.

"Nothing, Tony," he replied, grabbing his blazer from the bed where he had laid it out. "What do you need?"

"Just giving you the update on our background check. That writer you're hot for, Veux?"

"I am not 'hot' for him, Tony, I just admire him as a writer."

"Whatever, Probie. Turns out, he worked in Pfc. Robinson's furniture store back when he was a college student. The elder Pfc. Robinson, not the other one who we found dead this morning."

Tim laughed. "Tony, you're not suggesting that the writer of a national bestseller is involved in this murder, are you?"

He could practically hear Tony rolling his eyes. "No, McParanoid, I'm just letting you know to keep an eye on him. Just because he's your idol doesn't mean he can't be a murderer."

Tim bit back his reply, knowing that Tony was right. He couldn't discount anyone, including Randy Veux. "Fine, Tony, I'll definitely keep this information in mind this weekend. What else do you guys have?"

"Well, one of the janitors lied about where he was during the murder, but so far that's the strongest lead we have. So what's going on tonight? Are you going to sit around with other stuffy people talking about books?"

"It's just a meet and greet for everyone."

Tony emitted a big, exaggerated snore. "Snoozefest, McGee. I'm just glad that I don't have to sit here and listen to this all night."

"Come on, Tony!" Abby cut in. "I'm sure you'd love to sit down here and tease Tim mercilessly."

"You can fill me in on the juicy details later, Abbs. Have fun, Probie!"

Tim sighed, running his hand through his hair and effectively messing it up. "This wasn't what I had in mind when I planned this weekend," he groaned to himself as he grabbed his comb to fix his hair. He'd momentarily forgotten that he wasn't really alone.

"Don't worry, Tim," Abby assured him. "I'll try not to talk too much and distract you during your convention and I'll warn you anytime someone else comes in so you won't be startled by someone yelling in your ear."

"Thanks, Abbs," Tim said, managing a small smile, even though she couldn't see it. "Hopefully they'll wrap the case tonight and I'll be able to enjoy the remainder of my weekend…_without_ the voices in my head."


	6. Chapter 6

"Mr. Green, we have you on video surveillance entering this building at 1:00am last night and staying for two hours; yet you told Agent DiNozzo that you weren't here at all last night." Ziva leaned in to the hotel janitor who was beginning to look markedly nervous. "Would you like to revise your story?"

"It's not like that," Tommy insisted. "It's just…well…money's been tight lately."

"So you killed Pfc. Robinson for money?"

"No! Mr. Toole, he's only supposed to have the employees here for a certain amount of hours every week, but he knows that I've been having financial troubles so he's been paying me under the table. I come in for a couple of hours now and then and he pays me in cash."

Ziva folded her arms. "Why have you been having financial troubles?"

"Gambling," he admitted. "And not just the poker games with the other guys. I'm talking some serious gambling with those guys who'll break your knee caps if you don't pay up and stuff."

It seemed plausible enough and Ziva sensed that the guy was on the level. He looked at her worriedly. "Are you going to report this?"

"That depends," she replied with a shrug. "Can you tell me about anything suspicious around the time of the murder?"

"Well, not really…but I _did_ hear Nathan and Nina having an argument about something that day. When I talked to him about it later he wouldn't tell me anything, but he looked pretty steamed."

"Yes, well if your memory is jogged, please let us know." Ziva stood to leave, but Tommy called out to her.

"So are you going to tell anything about that or not?"

Ziva smirked. "That is up to Special Agent Gibbs."

* * *

Tim surveyed the ballroom that was filled with writers and wannabe writers. A small band played music for ambience as everyone walked around, chatting with their fellow mystery enthusiasts. Waiters walked about with trays of food and there was an open bar pouring wine and champagne. He tapped his fingers against the glass of his own drink as he looked around.

"See anything interesting, McGee?" Abby's voice echoed in his ear.

"Not really." The truth was, most of the people in attendance looked like middle-class married couples who were trying to push their manuscripts off on publishers. Tim had a feeling he was one of the younger writers present. "Certainly nothing that ties anyone with the murder."

"So are you having fun?"

Tim snorted. He'd shoved himself off in a corner as soon as he'd gotten there. Mainly, he wanted a good view of everyone, but he also didn't want to be noticed by someone who may try to use him in an attempt to get their own work published. "Well, let me know if you see anything interesting."

"Yeah, Abby, I know how it works. It's not like this is my first time doing this."

"Jeez, no need to be snarky with me."

Tim groaned. "I'm sorry, Abbs, I was just hoping to be able to enjoy myself. But knowing that I'm expected to be investigating has kind of put a damper on that."

"Talking to yourself?" Tim jumped at the voice and turned to look behind him. "Hello, Mr. Gemcity."

Standing there was an attractive young woman who stood a head below Tim. Her jet black hair was curled and pinned back and her bright blue eyes sparkled at him playfully. She wore a white blouse matched with a black tweed jacket and skirt, sheer hose with dark seams running up the back, and black pumps that looked as though they were made of suede. A strand of pearls and a black clutch completed the ensemble. She tapped her index finger against her champagne flute as she stood, bemused, waiting for him to reply.

"Hello," he said, smiling almost smugly as he looked her down. "You're a fan then?"

The woman laughed, pointing to the name tag that Tim had pinned to his blazer. "Not quite," she told him.

"Oh. Right," he said, his face reddening.

"I have heard of you, though, if that makes you feel better."

"It does, Miss…uh," he looked down her body for her name tag.

"Landry," she introduced, extending a small hand to him. "Myrna Landry."

He took the hand. "Myrna? That's an interesting name."

"My grandfather was a big fan of _The Thin Man_," she explained. Tim knew of the novel, though he'd admittedly never read it. "He named my mom Nora and then I got Myrna."

Tim wasn't quite sure who Myrna was – he knew Nora Charles was one of the characters in the story – but he smiled and nodded anyway. "Well, I think it's a nice name."

"I'm glad you think so. I do as well," she said, setting her flute down on a nearby table. Myrna looked out at the mingling people. "Wow. It's like my high school reunion," she said, leaning in to Tim. "Except everyone here is literate and I don't dislike any of them…yet."

Tim had to chortle, knowing all too well how she felt. "At least no one is trying to force feed us pictures of their kids."

"No, just their manuscripts," she replied, almost as though she'd been reading his mind. After taking a sip of her champagne, she added, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, "And I wouldn't be surprised if any of them started pulling out pictures soon. Especially that couple over there," she said, pointing to a portly, kind-looking husband and wife who were talking within a group of others. "That's Louie and Penny Frichter from Maine. They're trying to write a mystery novel together about a husband and wife who unwittingly stumble upon a murder. Though I don't know why I'm explaining this to you when they're both making it their mission to tell every single person within a mile of this convention in hope that someone will help them get it published."

"Thanks for the warning," Tim said. He placed his glass of wine down on the table and swirled the glass about, watching the dark liquid swish about. "So how about you? I mean, what are you working on?"

Myrna grinned. "It's a World War II murder mystery."

"History buff?"

"More than that. I teach history at a high school in Arlington."

"So why that specific era?"

She shrugged. "What can I say? I love the culture of the time!" She pulled a small compact mirror and a tube of lipstick from her clutch. "Mostly, though, it's because of my grandfather. He was a Marine in the war. POW at Cabanatuan."

A bell sounded inside Tim's head, well-aware of how similar her story sounded to Pfc. Robinson's. A grandfather who was a POW Marine in World War II. Granted, George Robinson had been imprisoned in Bataan, whereas Myrna's grandfather had been in Cabanatuan. Tim wasn't completely up on his geography, but he was pretty sure Cabanatuan was also in the Philippines. "Really? Was he in the Death March?"

Myrna looked impressed with his knowledge of the Philippines' World War II history. "Yes, he was. He's the reason I became so interested in history."

"McGee! I'm getting all of this loud and clear," Abby told him. "I'm definitely going to send this info up to Gibbs."

"You know," Tim said, leaning in to Myrna, "I heard that a Marine who worked here was killed last night."

Myrna closed her eyes, looking far more somber than she had before. "Yeah, Nathan," she told him. "His grandfather was in my grandfather's unit, so whenever there were reunions for all of them, I'd see Nathan there. He was a sweet guy and I know he worshiped his grandfather." She looked at Tim with a sad smile.

"I'm sorry," he said earnestly. "I didn't mean to upset you."

"It's fine," she assured him. "I didn't know him that well or anything, but it was a shock. I'd just seen him that afternoon."

"Afternoon? You were here yesterday?"

Myrna nodded. "The school had exams this week and mine were finished on Wednesday, so I figured I'd get an early start on the vacation. It's hard to find time to write when you have to grade history reports on the American Revolution." She downed the remainder of her champagne.

"So what about you? Do you have another job to pay the bills or are you so successful as a writer that you can just live on that alone?"

Tim knew that he wasn't supposed to be connected to NCIS in any way, but he wasn't sure how to respond to her. "I – uh – I'm a bit between jobs right now," he told her, not wanting to create an elaborate lie that he'd have to remember for the next time he saw her. "Just assessing my options."

"Ugh," she said in mock disgust, though she still smiled, "you lucky bastard!"

The air filled with the screech of microphone feedback, causing all conversation to halt. "Sorry!" said an elderly man who stood on the stage by the microphone. Beside him was a woman who looked to be about the same age. "Hello, everyone! I trust you're all doing well this evening." He was met with shouts of affirmation. "For those of you who don't know me, I'm Rick Watson and this lovely lady is Patricia Kroger. We're the founders and heads of the Mystery and Crime Writers Association."

Patricia leaned in to the microphone. "Rick and I cannot tell you how pleased we are to see so many people here. Some of you we know and some of you we hope to know very soon."

"You all should have a schedule of the activities, but if you don't there is one posted in the hotel lobby with the times and places for all activities. Tonight, we hope you will all get to know your fellow writers. Tomorrow we'll be having some great guest speakers. Leslie Fargo will be talking about research sources for writers." The group of people applauded the familiar name. "Then we'll have Craig Parlay from Brookstone Publishing who will be talking about getting your work published." Again, there was applause. "And, finally, Edgar Winner and Bestseller Randy Veux will be talking about his upcoming novel." The name of Randy Veux was met with great applause and cheers.

"Tomorrow night," Rick continued over the applause, "will be a formal dinner and Sunday, we will end the weekend with a brunch. Publishers will be there, so that's the time to bring in manuscripts to pass around."

"Again, we hope to get to know you all," Patricia said, "and we hope you enjoy the weekend." The duo left the stage as the collection of writers applauded them and the band started up again.

"Well," Tim said to Myrna, "I should probably extract myself from the corner and get to know the rest of the people here."

"Yeah, I should probably mingle with a few of the other people." She pushed herself up to her toes and kissed his cheek. "It was nice to meet you, Thom. I hope to see you around this weekend."

Tim was slightly thrown at the name Thom, but he regained composure, smiling at the young woman. "I'm sure we will," he assured her as they walked off their separate ways. He made a bee-line for the lobby, hoping to talk to Abby.

"So did you get all of that stuff, Abbs?"

"We got it, Probie," Tony said. "Who's the dame?"

"Her name is Myrna Landry, Tony. Get the details from Abby."

"Be careful, Tim," Abby's voice warned. "I mean, she knew the victim and was here at the time of the murder, so she's at least a suspect."

"Yeah, I know," he said, though he was doubtful. Myrna had seemed truly upset about the death of Pfc. Robinson. "Anything new on your end?"

"Not much. We're kind of all counting on you."

"Well, that doesn't make me feel nervous or anything," Tim said sarcastically. "I'll try and get something, but I really don't think anything is going to turn up within the convention."

"Whatever, McDoof. Now get back in there and observe!"

Tim bit back a scathing retort and re-entered the ballroom. He caught sight of Myrna in a corner talking with an older looking man. Actually, it looked more like he was talking and she was just listening. When the guy looked away for a moment, Myrna pointed her index finger and thumb out like a child's version of a gun, placing her index finger to her temple, and bent the thumb down, miming the action of shooting herself in the head. He grinned, sensing that she wasn't quite enjoying the conversation.

"Oh my gosh! You're that _Deep Six_ guy!" Tim turned and found himself face to face with the couple that Myrna had pointed out to him earlier. "Louie, he wrote that book that we saw in Walmart!"

Tim smiled politely. "Thom E. Gemcity, ma'am."

The woman grabbed it with more strength than Tim had ever known any woman to have and shook it roughly. "I'm Penny Frichter and this is my husband Louie. We're from Maine." The woman pulled Tim off to the side, talking his ear off about the novel that she and Louie were in the process of writing. He only hoped that Abby was as bored by the conversation as he was.

* * *

"It wasn't there!"

"What the hell do you mean it wasn't there?"

"It wasn't there! I looked every where! He must have lied to me about it."

"Dammit! Those NCIS people knew about the journal and they probably found it inside."

"So what do we do know?"

"We get it back, genius!"

"And how do you propose we do that?"

"You lost it, you figure it out!"

_Click_


	7. Chapter 7

"Abby, you're still here?"

"Nope, this is just a hologram of me." The forensic scientist was currently lying on her futon, Bert situated below her head as a make-shift pillow. "What time is it anyway?" she asked as she looked up at Gibbs.

"It's a little after 05:00," Ziva told her as she entered behind Gibbs. "Have you been home?"

"Ha! Why go home when I could sit down here and listen to McGee talk to other writers about the most original way they've ever found to kill off characters?" The yawn that followed her statement indicated to both Gibbs and Ziva that the night spent observing Tim's observations had been a somewhat boring one. "No Caf-Pow, Gibbs?" she asked as she stood, stretching her arms up.

"Have you got anything?"

"As a matter of fact," Abby teased with a smile. "One of the women in attendance for the convention knew Pfc. Nathan Robinson and she was definitely present on Thursday night."

"Old girlfriend?" Ziva guessed.

"Not that she said. Her grandfather and his grandfather served in the same unit and she'd met Nathan at a few of their reunions."

"Name?"

"Her name is Myrna Landry. No name on her grandfather, but he was a POW in one of the Japanese prison camps in Cabanatuan."

"Ziva," Gibbs said looking back at the Mossad officer.

"Right," she told him. "I'll look him up and tell you what I can find."

"So did my info warrant me a Caf-Pow?"

"Depends. Anything else?"

"Nope. McGee left and went to bed at around 10:00pm. I figured that listening to him snore wasn't exactly important, so I did some other things before catching a few Z's." Abby grabbed a bag containing the murder weapon and dropped it on to the table. "No prints anywhere on this thing, but the blood definitely belongs to Nathan Robinson, so this was definitely the murder weapon."

"Is that all you can tell me?"

"I found a mixture of chemicals on there, but I'm not sure yet what it is. Mass Spec has been petulant lately and he doesn't want to do what he's told, but I'll let you know when I know."

"What about the map?"

Abby grabbed the piece of paper and handed it to Gibbs. "Dead end. All I can tell you is that this paper isn't as aged as the paper in the journal."

Gibbs handed it back to her. "I'm sending DiNozzo down here to get some of those camera glasses. Give this back to him when he comes down."

"Are you sending DiNozzo to the hotel to be on the look out?"

"Nope!" Gibbs called over his shoulder as he walked out. "He's going to deliver them to McGee. We need to be able to see what he sees."

"What about my Caf-Pow, Gibbs?" Abby asked as he walked out of the lab. His head appeared a moment later.

"Put one on my tab!"

* * *

Tim was jolted from his sleep by a harsh rapping against his door. He peeled his eyes open and glanced at the clock that sat on the bed table. 6:15am. He couldn't imagine who would be knocking on his door at this hour. The knocking started up again and he begrudgingly pulled himself from the bed. "I'm coming," he groaned to the mystery knocker.

"Morning, Sleeping Probie." Tony pushed into the room, closing the door behind him.

Tim nearly groaned. "What do you need, Tony?"

Tony responded by thrusting a pair of eye glasses toward the younger agent. "Camera. Gibbs wants you to snoop a bit."

"That it?"

"Aw, I'm hurt, Probie!" Tony jumped on to the bed. "Wow, this is a really nice bed," he commented, bouncing up and down a bit on it. "In fact, this place is really nice. How are you paying for this?"

"With money."

"Ha ha, McGee." Tony said dryly as he examined the room. "I see you slept alone last night."

"Not everyone sleeps with someone upon meeting them for the first time." When he saw the twinkle in the senior agent's eye, he hastily added, "Not that I met anyone!"

"Don't lie, McGee. Abby already told me about the saucy lady you ran into last night. Myrna Landry?"

"We just talked."

"Uh huh. So what does she look like?"

"Don't you have some actual work to be doing?"

"Not really. I'm meeting with that Veux guy at 8:00 to ask him a few questions, so I'll be sticking around here until then. Mind if I catch a few in your bed?"

"Yes, I do, Tony!" Tim grabbed Tony's arm and pulled him up. "Go find someone else to annoy."

"Touchy!" Tony said, brushing the arm of his jacket where Tim had grabbed him. "Fine. I wouldn't want to sleep in a bed that you'd already slept in anyway. The last thing I need is to lay my head against a pillow soaked with your drool."

"Out," Tim said, opening the door. "I'm sure you can find some way to entertain yourself."

"So are you going to see your girlfriend again?"

"She's not my girlfriend, Tony. As for seeing her again, there's a formal dinner tonight so it's likely that I'll run into her at some point."

"Ooo, and the dinner starts at 6:00pm, right?" Tony rubbed his hands together giddily. "Well, I know where I'll be tonight. Knock 'em dead, kid!" he said, giving Tim a wink before Tim slammed the door in his face.


	8. Chapter 8

"Pfc. Gene Landry was born in 1922 in Maryland and died in July of last year," Ziva said, pulling up a black and white picture of a Marine in his dress blues on the plasma. "He joined the Marine Corps right out of high school and was known as 'Thin Man' among his peers. He was a POW in Cabanatuan where he was given a position as a cook. He would sneak food for himself and friends to keep alive. He suffered an injury to his eyes that left him nearly blind. After being released, he was taught Braille by a young woman in the Navy by the name of Alice Goodwin. The two married and had five children, the youngest of whom gave birth to Myrna Parker, the young woman McGee met last night. She uses her mother's maiden name for her penname."

"She's published?" Gibbs asked.

"She's done a little freelance writing, including some non-fiction pieces that she put together for some small magazines based on her grandfather's stories."

"What else do you know about the granddaughter?"

"She got a bachelors degree in fiction writing and a masters in history. She teaches at a small high school in Arlington. She's never been arrested; she doesn't even have a speeding ticket."

"Any connection to Pfc. Robinson?"

"Aside from their grandfathers? Not that I can see. They don't leave near each other, they've never exchanged phone calls or e-mails, and I can't find anything that shows that they'd seen each other in the past year. Well, except for seeing each other yesterday, of course." Ziva looked at Gibbs and saw him staring at the plasma was a frown. "What are you thinking, Gibbs?"

"I'm thinking that, if the murder actually had anything to do with the map found in that journal, Pfc. Robinson had likely confided in someone else about it, maybe even planned to look for the supposed treasure with them."

"He and Matthew Keach were close. Perhaps he knows more than he's letting on," Ziva suggested. "Though, Keach was definitely not in the building last night."

"What about that janitor?"

"I corroborated his explanation with Rodney Toole. Toole said he'd been helping out Green with some extra hours here and there."

"Doesn't mean he didn't do it."

"Very true. Ms. Lambard, though, is in the clear. She was having drinks with Rick Watson and Patricia Kroger until 3:00am as they finalized the plans for the convention."

Gibbs pulled a photo of Pfc. Robinson from the file. "Go around to the restaurants and bars surrounding the hotel and ask if they've seen Robinson in there with anyone else in the past two months."

* * *

Tony entered the small café where he was scheduled to be meeting with Randy Veux. It was an extension of the hotel and had only about nine small tables, as well as a bar that ran along the front counter. He was ten minutes early and not at all surprised to see that Veux hadn't arrived yet. The only other people present were a blonde woman, a brunette woman, an elderly man, and the young woman taking orders at the front counter.

He sat at one of the tables with his coffee, and removed his jacket, hanging it over the back of his chair. Immediately, his phone began to ring and Gibbs' name appeared on the ID screen. "Hey, boss."

"…ony…Veux…Mc…sses…" Gibbs' voice faded in and out.

"You're breaking up, boss," Tony said, standing and walking to a corner window of the café. He placed a finger on his other ear to drown out any other sounds. "Can you repeat that, boss?"

"Have you talked to Veux and did you give McGee his glasses?"

"No and yes. McGee should be set for the day, but Veux hasn't shown up yet. It's still about five minutes until our meeting time."

"Well, when you finish with that, call Ziva. I sent her down to show Pfc. Robinson's picture around to local bars and restaurants and find out if he'd been seen hanging out with anyone in the past couple of months."

Tony turned around and saw Randy Veux enter the café. The man stepped to the side, smiling and holding the door open as the blonde woman passed by. He then glanced around, catching Tony's eyes. "Veux is here boss, but yeah, I'll get right on that when I finish up here," he assured Gibbs while simultaneously gesturing to Randy to sit at the table.

"Agent DiNozzo?" Randy asked, extending his hand. He was in his sixties, though his black hair only had flecks of gray around the sideburns. He didn't dress like a bestselling writer, wearing simple corduroy slacks and a button-up shirt with a jacket that looked as though it had seen better days.

"That's me," Tony told him, shaking his hand. "And I take it you are Randy Veux?"

"One in the same," the man said with a warm smile. "Now what can I do for NCIS?"

"Does the name George Robinson ring a bell for you?"

"Of course. I worked in his furniture store years ago when I was still in high school. He was one of the best employers I ever had."

"His grandson was murdered here two nights ago. Nathan Robinson?"

Randy shrugged. "I hadn't seen Mr. Robinson since I went off to college back in 1960. I've never even met his grandson. I'm sorry to hear that he was murdered, though."

"Did you know that George Robinson had died two months ago?"

"Yes, I remember seeing his obituary in one of the papers. Sadly, I was leaving that day for New York to promote an upcoming book, so I was unable to make it to the funeral, but I did send flowers for the family."

Tony reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the journal. So far, they hadn't told anyone about the map found in the journal. Veux, however, had known the elder Robinson and may know something about the old map. He held the book up for the writer to see. "Recognize this?"

Randy peered at the journal. "I think Mr. Robinson had an old journal like that. I remember he would talk about his days spent in the military and sometimes he'd have to refer to his journal to remember exactly what one of his friends had said."

"Did he ever mention any sort of treasure to you?"

Randy lifted one eyebrow. "Treasure? Like gold and silver?"

"_Any_ sort of treasure, Mr. Veux."

"Nothing comes to mind," he admitted. "Mr. Robinson was happy with his lot."

"Did he ever mention a treasure map in his possession?"

"A treasure map?" Randy repeated, looking as though he wanted to laugh. "Agent DiNozzo, I can't imagine what you're talking about."

Tony opened the back of the journal where he'd placed the map that morning…and found nothing. Furrowing his brow, he flipped through the pages of the journal, even held it upside down and shook it, but it wasn't there. "One moment," he mumbled to Randy as he searched through the pockets of his jacket and his trousers.

"Will that be all, Agent DiNozzo?"

Tony frowned. He knew he'd had the map when he'd left. He couldn't imagine where it had gone. "Uh, yes, Mr. Veux, that's it for now. We may need to be in touch with you if we have anymore questions."

The man stood, finishing off the coffee in his mug. "Well, I'll be here until Monday, so you know where to find me. Good luck with your investigation!"

Tony glanced around the small café. The number of patrons had dwindled down to just one – the elderly man – with both of them women having left. Could it have been stolen from his pocket? He _had_ left his coat (with the journal inside) unattended at his table while he talked to Gibbs. It wouldn't have been hard for someone to snatch it.

With a groan, he pulled out his cell phone, aware of how well Gibbs was going to take this.

"What do you mean you lost the map!" Tony held the phone away from his ear as Gibbs' bellow was so loud he didn't want to rupture his ear drums.

"Boss, I swear! I don't know where it is. It's not in my pocket and I've already checked the car."

"You dropped off McGee's glasses? Check his room! Check the entire damn hotel!"

"Boss, we've still got the real map," Tony reminded him. "That one was just a copy."

"You think I don't know that, DiNozzo? Whoever killed Robinson probably wanted the map and we don't want to drop it right into their hands. We also don't want some damn hotel guest to find it and go on some crazy treasure hunt. Find the damn copy of the map!"

The phone clicked in Tony's ear and he was glad that he hadn't told Gibbs about leaving the journal unattended for a minute.


	9. Chapter 9

Tim had always been grateful that he didn't need glasses growing up as he was sure they would not only add another nail into his coffin of geekiness, but because he had an inkling that he wasn't one of those guys who could look attractive when bespectacled. Now as he looked into the bathroom mirror donning the dark-rimmed glasses, he was sure of it.

"I just don't think I have the facial structure for glasses, Abbs," he said with a frown.

"I think it's a really hot look for you, McGee. Makes you look distinguished and intelligent."

"Are you saying I don't always look intelligent?"

"Of course not! I just think that glasses enhance your…" Abby trailed off, trying to find the best word.

"My nerdiness?"

"Your McGeeness."

Tim wasn't sure if the term "McGeeness" was a positive or a negative, but he didn't ask Abby to elaborate. "What's going on down there?"

"In my lab or at headquarters?"

"Both."

"Nothing and nothing. At least, nothing as far as I know in regards to that second nothing. I haven't seen anyone since this morning."

Tim checked his watch. It was a bit after 9:00 and, though the first speaker for the convention wasn't scheduled until 11:00, he wanted to grab a quick breakfast and possibly explore the hotel a bit more. He was, after all, getting compensated for this weekend, so any stealthy sleuthing he could do would only be fair. "How much did you tell Tony about Myrna?"

"Just that she was totally flirting with you last night and that I could pretty much hear you salivating," Abby teased. "So was she cute?"

"Since when are you interested in girls that are hitting on me? You usually get all protective and jealous."

"I do not!" A loud slurp echoed in his ears, followed by the sound of a large Caf-Pow cup being dropped into the trash can. "You've just been seeing dumb bimbos lately and that's so not you. This girl sounds like she actually has half a brain, putting her far ahead of your past love interests. Present company excluded, of course," she added. "Now answer my question."

"She's cute, Abby," he told her with a definitive smile.

"Well, don't start drooling over her yet," Abby scolded. "She is kind of a suspect right now."

"Yeah, I'm not stupid, Abbs. I just met her, so I don't think we'll be getting intimate in the near future."

"But if she offered, you'd accept, right?" Tim could hear the grin in Abby's voice.

"I'm not DiNozzo."

"Nope, just male."

* * *

"I got the map back."

"What? How?"

"One of those NCIS guys was in the café this morning with the journal and it was tucked in there."

"Did anyone see you?"

"No, you idiot. Unlike you, I actually think before I act."

"I told you, killing him wasn't my fault. He just wasn't listening."

"Yes, but leaving the fucking murder weapon there and losing the map were both your fault."

"Yeah, so you've mentioned about a hundred times already. When are we going to do this?"

"I'm not so certain _we_ are doing anything anymore."

There was a pause. "You can't push me out of this. I'll go to those cops and tell them everything."

"Tell them what? That you murdered Nathan? That's got nothing to do with me."

"Dammit, you cannot do this to me!"

"I can do whatever I want. If you really want in on this, you'd better fucking toughen up and prove it."

_Click_

* * *

Tony caught sight of Ziva passing by the hotel. He knocked on the window, catching her attention, and waved for her to come in. "Gibbs told me to go with you to show Robinson's picture around bars and restaurants."

"Really? He told me you were to stay here and look for the copy of the map that you let get lost," she told him with a smirk.

"I didn't let it get lost," Tony told her, glowering as he spoke. "I think it was stolen. Trust me, there is no way it could have simply fallen out of my pocket. Someone must have grabbed it."

"And you did not notice that you were being pick pocketed?"

"Well, I kind of turned my back for a moment. I mean, I left my jacket at the table in the café, but I only was, like, five feet away from it and it was only for a minute."

"One minute is all that some people need." Ziva jerked her head toward the door, silently suggesting that they continue interviewing workers at local establishments. "Did you search the people who were in the café with you?"

"Gee, no, David, I didn't even think about that," he said sarcastically. "Of course, I did. By the time I'd found out it was gone, though, two women who had been in there when I'd entered were gone."

"Did you get a good look at them?" Ziva asked. Before he could answer, she added, "Of course you did; they were, after all, women."

Tony scowled. "Yes, I did. One was a blonde, really skinny and about 5'9". She was wearing this really short black lace skirt with this low-cut green top. The other had black hair and was about 5'1" or so. She was wearing this brown skirt, I think tweed, with a cream colored sleeveless blouse. They were both about eight on a scale of hotness," he said with a lupine smile.

"Well, it's good that we know they were 'hot,'" Ziva said rolling her eyes. "I'll put a BOLO out on that right away."

They had just arrived at the next place – an Irish pub that was about a block down from the hotel – and Tony pulled the door open for Ziva. "Sarcasm doesn't become you."

Ziva furrowed her brow, not understanding his statement, but said nothing as she didn't want to get caught up in an English grammar session and derail their current assignment. "Excuse me," she called to a man seated at one of the tables. He was looking through receipts and adding up totals, so she assumed he was the manager.

"We don't open for another hour, ma'am."

She flipped open her ID. "Officer David and this is Agent DiNozzo. We are with NCIS investigating the murder of a Marine." She pulled the photo of Nathan out and held it out to the manager. "Have you seen this man here with anyone in the past two months?"

The man took it and looked it over. "I don't usually greet customers. I stay in the back," he explained. "But I've got a couple of our regular bartenders here and they may know something." He turned his head toward the bar, calling out, "Michael! Paulie!"

Two young men appeared in the doorway wearing white button-up shirts and khaki slacks. One had red hair while the other had brown hair, but both looked more or less the same age. "Yeah, Mr. Lawson?" the redhead asked.

Lawson gestured toward Ziva and Tony. "These two have some questions about some Marine."

"Have you seen this man here with anyone these past two months?" Ziva reiterated, this time holding the photo out to the two young men. They peered in, studying in the picture.

"Yeah, that guy comes in here a lot," the brunette confirmed. "Uh, usually gets a Guinness."

"Has he come here with anyone?" Tony asked.

"That ice queen," the redhead said, more to the brunette than to Tony and Ziva.

"Oh yeah!" the guy agreed. "Some girl has been meeting with him a couple of nights a week for about a month or so."

"Do you remember what she looked like?" Ziva asked.

"Uh, blonde, your height I guess. Really hot, but she was really frigid, too. They were talking about something one night and I stopped by the table to ask if they needed anything else and she just gave me this icy look, like I was intruding on them."

Ziva pulled another picture and showed it to the brunette. "Is this her?"

"That's her," he confirmed. "Always orders a cosmo."

"Thank you for your help," Ziva told them as she and Tony made their way to the door. As soon as they were outside, she pulled her cell phone out and hit speed dial for Gibbs' phone.

"Who is that?" Tony asked, grabbing at the picture.

"That's Julie Lambard, the events coordinator for Hotel Monaco."

Tony looked over the picture, his eyes widening. "Ziva, that's the blonde who was in the café this morning!"


	10. Chapter 10

Tim walked down the hall to the small conference room where Leslie Fargo was scheduled to be speaking. He'd spent the morning inconspicuously sneaking about the hotel for any clue that would be helpful to the team. So far, though, all he'd figured out was that the maids had found a new room in which to smoke and that one of the porters was having an affair, neither of which he thought were at all tied to the case. He'd thought about skipping the lecture to snoop some more, but he had paid for this convention and he wasn't going to let that money go to waste.

"Good morning, Thom!" a voice chirped from behind him. He turned to see Myrna following behind him. Today, she was dressed in a cream colored silk blouse, a tweed brown skirt with a pink ribbon running along the hem of it, and brown heels. Her hair was pulled back into a half-pony tail with the majority of it falling down around her shoulders. He was glad that Abby had taken a respite for the moment and her lab was currently empty. The last thing he needed was for her to be commenting in his ear right now.

Myrna furrowed her brow as she neared him. "Were you wearing glasses last night, too, or am I just going crazy?"

"Good morning," he said, returning her greeting. "No, you're not going crazy. My contact lenses weren't agreeing with me this morning, so I decided to just go with these. I don't usually wear them."

"Well, you should! I think you're one of those rare people who can actually pull off the dark-rimmed glasses look." Tim visibly blushed, much to Myrna's apparent delight.

"What's this one going to be talking about again?" she asked, pointing into the open room.

"I think she's going to talk about research sources."

Myrna twisted her mouth into a strange contortion. "That topic's a bit obsolete considering the technology we have at our fingertips, don't you think?" she commented as she slipped past him into the room. "If I need to find something I can get it in seconds, or at least find out where to get it."

Tim shrugged. "You've got a point." He grabbed one of the chairs from the table and pulled it out for her. "Oh, here, let me."

Her eyebrows shot up as she smiled sweetly at him. "Well, I can't say I've had that happen to me much," she told him as she slid into the chair. "Thank you."

He grinned at her as he took the seat next to her. "Are you going to all of the lectures today?"

"If this one isn't too boring I may go to what's his face's thing about getting published. That just seems like overkill, though, considering we're having a brunch tomorrow with publishers."

"What about Randy Veux's lecture?"

"Are you kidding? Like I'd miss that! What mystery enthusiast wouldn't die at the chance to hear Randy Veux talk about his writing? That's like an avid movie fan passing up the chance to see, like, Martin Scorsese or something."

"Yeah," Tim nodded in agreement, "I'm a big fan of him. In fact, when I was–"

"Oh, dear God! Duck!" Myrna hissed, grabbing the arm of his jacket and pulling him down as she hid the upper-half of her body behind the table. "The Frichter couple just entered and if they sit with us we'll have to listen to them talk about how they not-so-subtly have based the protagonists of their novel on themselves."

Tim looked to her about to respond, but stopped as he realized that their faces were only inches away from each other. He could feel her warm breath against his cheek and he found that his heart began to race. Myrna looked to him, suddenly aware of how close they now were. Her grip, which still held his arm, loosened and he saw her tongue gently flick against her top lip, slightly smudging the rose colored lipstick that was painted across it. Her eyes, which had been playful and teasing, softened as they trailed down his face.

Tim momentarily wondered if they were going to kiss.

"Sorry," she said in a soft tone as she straightened herself. "I, uh, didn't mean to pull you down so harshly."

Tim followed suit, his lips forming a small, disappointed pout. "It's okay…I mean, thanks for protecting me. After listening to them talk last night I kind of wanted to swear off all mystery novels forever out of fear that I may one day accidentally pick up theirs and actually read any of it."

"Mrorw!" Abby purred in his ear, imitating a cat. "Since when are you so catty, McGee?"

Myrna laughed at his comment. "Yeah, I can empathize with you there."

"So is this her?" Tim tried not to roll his eyes in response to Abby's question. How did she expect him to answer her? "Sorry," she added, as though reading his mind. "I guess you can't exactly talk with me right now. She's cute, though. When I came back down, you two looked like you were about to make out or something. I'm glad you didn't though. I mean, I don't really want to sit down here and watch you tongue some girl, McGee."

"Hey," Myrna said, disrupting Tim's thoughts, "if this one is boring, do you want to skip the next one with me and check out this little bookstore a couple of blocks from here? We should be back in plenty of time for Randy Veux's thing and the store looks like it has some interesting finds."

Tim wanted to say yes; he even thought about suggesting that they blow off _this_ lecture together. But Tim knew that he was supposed to be keeping an eye on things around the hotel, not going on a date with some woman he'd just met, specifically considering he didn't yet know whether or not to consider her a suspect. "I, actually, really want to go to the next one," he said lamely. "But I'll take a rain check on it."

"Fine," she said with an exaggerated sigh. "But in return, you have to promise that tonight you'll rescue me if I get cornered by any boring people."

Tim laughed. "I promise, so long as you do the same for me."

She offered him the pink of her right hand. "Pinky swear?"

He hooked his pinky around hers, and they shook on it. "Pinky swear."

* * *

Julie opened the door and immediately scowled at the person standing there. "What are you doing here?" she asked.

"Look, we need to talk about this."

"No, we don't," she said. "You're dead weight right now."

"Look, I'm the one who took care of Nathan when he tried to back out. You can't just push me out of this."

"The only reason you're in this to begin with is because I told Nathan to include you. I'm the one he confided in, remember? I'm the one he told about the map."

"Yeah, after you fucking seduced him."

"I do what I need to," Julie snarled. "Don't be jealous just because it doesn't work for you."

"You bitch!" The figure stormed in, slamming the door shut. In the visitors hand was a spool of some kind of cord. Julie caught sight of it and her eyes widened in sudden fear.

"Get the hell away!" Julie yelled. She ran toward the bedroom, but was caught from behind. She felt the cord wrap around her neck and clawed at her neck in an effort to remove it. She tried to scream, but the cord was so tight she couldn't get any sound out.

The person held the cord tight around her neck until the body went slump. Julie's body dropped to the ground, her eyes still open in terror. The face of her killer loomed over her, a triumphant smirk on said killer's face. "Who's _dead_weight now, Julie?"


	11. Chapter 11

"Seems kind of like an open and shut case, doesn't it?" Tony commented to Ziva. The two were in Julie Lambard's apartment, standing in front of her swinging body. It seemed she had taken her own life by hanging herself from the fan in her living room.

The team had arrived at the apartment that afternoon to speak with her. When she didn't answer the door, they picked the lock and entered, shocked to find her dead and to find a suicide note typed up on her computer. In the note, Julie admitted to accidentally murdering Nathan when the two had argued about the treasure map. She claimed to have disposed of the map before killing herself, not wanting greed to affect anyone else who found it.

"There is no such thing, DiNozzo," Gibbs said gruffly.

"I agree," Ziva said. "This…it is all too neat. All of the loose ends are tied up."

"She _was_ seen canoodling with Pfc. Robinson, Ziva, and we have a confession."

"A typed confession, Tony. Anyone could have written that. And why would she steal the map only to get rid of it and kill herself?"

He shrugged, snapping another picture. "Didn't you say her alibi had checked out?"

It was true. Julie Lambard had been with Rick Watson and Patricia Kroger at the time of Pfc. Robinson's murder. "Assuming that Watson and Kroger aren't covering for her, it does not seem as though she could have murdered Pfc. Robinson."

"Obviously, someone wasn't aware that she had an airtight alibi," Gibbs said.

"Another tragic death associated with our treasure map, I see," Ducky commented as he entered, Jimmy not far behind.

"It would seem that way, Ducky," Tony told him, pointing the ME to the body.

"Ah, yes. And a beautiful young woman. Terrible how much damage greed can do."

"Well, it is a deadly sin, Doctor," Jimmy commented. "Uh, not that you didn't know that…I'm sure you did…"

"Liver probe, Mr. Palmer."

"Uh, yes, Doctor."

As Jimmy dug through the bag, Ducky took a moment to assess the scene. "On the surface, I would guess that cause of death was strangulation caused by the cord wrapped around her neck."

"You think it could have been something else, Ducky?"

"In my profession, Anthony, one cannot assume cause of death. In fact, I recall a case I worked on years ago. A woman was found with her neck broken. It wasn't until the autopsy that I saw she had been poisoned. You see, her lover had–"

"Got a TOD yet, Duck?

"When I do, I will let you know, Jethro."

Ziva stood from the computer where she had been dusting for prints. "I was able to lift some prints."

"And I'm done with pictures," Tony announced.

"I want you to go through Ms. Lambard's trash for the map."

"We already did, boss. It's a dead end."

"Then have the superintendent let you into the trash room so you can go through that."

"Ha, you're joking right?"

"Do I strike you as the joking type, Tony?"

"…I guess not."

"Jethro! TOD is 1320!"

"That matches the time stamp on this document," Ziva said, pointing to the note that was still up on the computer screen.

"I want you to get that back to Abby. Maybe she'll find something of use."

Ducky stood. "Well, Mr. Palmer, why don't you get the gurney up here so we can transport Ms. Lambard to our humble quarters."

Gibbs knelt down beside the body, looking at the harsh red lines that were imprinted against her neck. "Think this was suicide, Duck?"

"It's impossible to say at this point. The cord wrapped around her neck matches the bruises and marks let on her neck, but that's hardly conclusive." Ducky looked up and saw the special agent's steely glare. "What is your gut telling you, Jethro?"

Gibbs didn't immediately reply. He was still looking over the body, hoping for some sign of what had really happened here. He stood, looking to Ducky. "It's telling me that map didn't leave this apartment in a garbage bag."

* * *

The conference room was much more packed than the conference rooms for the earlier lectures had been. Tim estimated that only thirty people in total had attended the lectures given by Leslie Fargo and Craig Parlay. Randy Veux's lecture was set to begin in ten minutes and there were already over fifty people present. Like Myrna had said, no true mystery enthusiast would pass up the chance to hear Veux speak. He was the Messiah for mystery writers and wannabe mystery writers alike.

Tim had arrived early to stake out a good spot. Craig Parlay's lecture had been far more boring than he'd thought it would be – and Leslie Fargo's had been only slightly better – and he almost regretted not accepting Myrna's invitation to play hooky and scour the nearby bookstore. If he had, maybe he wouldn't have gotten cornered by the Frichters, who had talked nonstop about their writing process, which included letting their children – who were no older than eight – write bits and pieces of dialogue to give it a sense of "realism."

"Hey, McGee," Abby's voice echoed in his ear. "I'm back."

Tim didn't reply, though his mood did sour somewhat. He'd hoped to go more than an hour without Abby, Gibbs, or anyone else listening in on his conversations.

"Thought I should tell you that Julie Lambard, the events coordinator for the hotel, is dead." Tim sat up upon hearing that, and listened intently to what he was being told. "It looks like it was suicide, but Gibbs doesn't believe it. She also had a typed suicide note on her computer in which she admitted to the murder of Pfc. Robinson. But the map that Tony is still MIA, so Gibbs still wants you to wired up."

His shoulders slumped. He had been so close to being able to enjoy his weekend, only to have it snapped back at the last moment. Though, he knew it was best to err on the safe side, at least until they were certain beyond reasonable doubt that the murderer had been found.

As a group of last minute stragglers trickled in, Myrna broke through the throng of people, carrying a plastic bag that looked to be very weighed down with books. Tim raised his hand to catch her attention and beckoned her over.

"I saved you a seat," he said, standing to once again pull her chair out for her.

Myrna placed the filled bag on the table and took her seat, thanking him once again. "I feel like I've been on my feet for the past three hours."

"I take it the bookstore was a hit."

Her eyes lit up excitedly. "You should have come! I found this great book about Margaret Utinsky;" she said, pulling out the books and showing them off the way a child shows off his drawings to a parent, "I found a copy of _Ten Little Indians_ from back when it was actually called _Ten Little Indians_; I found a book of fairy tales by the Brothers Grimm. It was a cornucopia of great finds!"

Tim grabbed one of the books from off the table and looked it over. "Thursday Next? _First Among Sequels_?"

Myrna blushed slightly, taking the book from his grasp. "Yeah, I'm a big fan of the Thursday Next series."

"Never heard of it."

"It's really good. It's kind of a mixture of sci-fi, mystery, fantasy, and classic novel. Very whimsical and funny."

Myrna busied herself by putting her purchases back into the bag. "So did I miss much?"

Tim grimaced as he recalled how he had spent the last two hours. "Craig Parlay's lecture was worse than Leslie Fargo's."

"Wow, that's pretty bad," she said, raising her eyebrows. "So I bet you wish you'd come with me, huh?" Her voice dripped with a slight tone of flirtation.

"Yeah, I do," he replied with a small smile, causing her to look away shyly.

"Well, the store opens really early, so if you want to go tomorrow before the brunch, I'd be happy to take you there. Or, I guess you could go alone."

"No! I mean, I'd like to go with you. It sounds like a nice place." Anyone who was listening to the conversation wouldn't think the duo was talking about a small bookstore that was very out of place among the thriving chain stores that surrounded it.

Abby giggled in his ear. "She's totally digging you, McGee," she whispered.

Patricia Kroger appeared at the front of the room, tapping the podium's microphone to get everyone's attention. "Hello!" she chirped as the audience fell silent. "Thank you all for your enthusiasm for our wonderful guest speakers. This will be our last speaker for the day and then we will see all of you tonight at our dinner. So now it is my honor to introduce Mr. Randy Veux!" The room broke into a raucous applause as Mr. Vexu took his place behind the podium. Behind him, Tim heard a few hoots and whistles from other fans.

"Thank you," he said humbly as they quieted down. "The honor here is all mine. The Mystery and Crime Novelist Association was good to me when I was just starting out, and I'm happy to be of help to other up and coming writers.

"I'd like to start off by giving you a little background on my experience in getting published…"

* * *

**AN:** I just wanted to take a moment to thank all of my readers and reviewers! I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your feedback! Thank you all!


	12. Chapter 12

Gibbs gave Vance's assistant a nod as he walked into the office. "You wanted to see me."

"Gibbs," Vance greeted with a nod. "I understand you've had a breakthrough in the Robinson case."

"I don't know that I'd call it a breakthrough."

"You had a confession, didn't you?"

"A typed confession in the form of a supposed suicide note," he corrected. "It's nothing concrete."

"And you believe Lambard is being framed?"

"No, sir. I'm sure Lambard had a hand in Pfc. Robinson's murder. I just think she wasn't the only one."

Vance nodded as he considered this. "For what it's worth, I agree with you."

"I sense there's a 'but' coming."

"Agent McGee specifically requested this weekend off. Right now, he's getting paid for attending a convention."

"I'm not going to close an investigation just because one of my men is getting paid for doing what he would have been doing anyway."

"I'm not telling you to close the investigation; I'm telling you to take McGee off surveillance. Let him enjoy the rest of his weekend."

"And if he finds something pertinent to the case?"

"He's got a cell phone and I'm sure he knows how to use it."

Gibbs nodded. "Fair enough. I'll let him know." He turned to leave, but was stopped by Vance's voice.

"Gibbs, I know your gut is churning over this one; mine is too. But if you don't find something soon to tie this to anyone other than Lambard, I'll expect you to close the case."

"I'll close it," Gibbs said as he walked out. Then, out of Vance's earshot, he added to himself, "When we're finished with it."

* * *

"So, I guess my question is what do you think about having too much description of a death in a mystery novel?" Penny Frichter finished after a long and drawn out explanation of how she and her husband had been avoiding describing any of the deaths in their novel out of fear that it would scare the children. In response, Myrna made a big show of rolling her eyes and groaning.

"Ah, well, I suppose it's completely up to the writer. My books aren't intended for children, so I don't normally worry about how descriptive my deaths are," Veux explained. "I do think that, for the reader's sake, you should give at least some information about how a person was killed. Remember, too, that you want to really draw the reader in and help them picture everything clearly in their mind. Sometimes you've got to have a little gore, especially in a murder mystery."

After talking about how he had finally gotten his book published and gone from a nobody to a best-selling author practically overnight, Veux had opened the floor for questions from members of the audience. So far, the questions had been more about the business aspect of writing – getting published and promoting yourself – than they had been about the writing process itself. Of course, the majority of the audience already knew how to write, but were having trouble getting anything out to the public.

"Are there anymore questions?"

Tim, seeing no other hands raised, tentatively raised his into the air and was called upon by Veux. "I read that the character of Lt. Irving was actually based on your brother. I was wondering how he felt about having a character inspired by him, especially considering the fact that Irving is depicted as being something of a…ah…hardass."

Veux grinned at Tim's question. "Well, one is always taking a risk when basing a character on a real person, especially when it's very obvious. To answer your question, my brother was more flattered than anything, but then he was always proud of being a hardass. Some of the people on whom I based characters weren't so forgiving," he said with a grimace. "I think the best thing you can do is either talk with the person before the book is published or not make it so obvious on whom the character is based."

"Sounds like good advice, Timmy."

Tim glanced to the side, wishing Abby's voice would disappear from within his mind. Hearing Randy Veux talk wasn't nearly as interesting when Abby was providing commentary all the way through. The only saving grace of the situation was that Tony wasn't there.

"Well," Kroger said as she once again took the microphone, "I would like to thank you all for attending the lecture. I'm sure our guest speakers have all appreciated your interest. It is now," she glanced at her watch, "5:45pm. Our dinner will begin promptly at 7:00pm and I do hope to see you all there."

The group of mystery novel enthusiasts stood and began gathering their things. The dinner was to be formal, so many of them hoped to rest up from the day's events and groom themselves for the evening. Tim knew he needed a nice, relaxing bath before mingling with his fellow writers.

"Only an hour and fifteen minutes to get ready?"

"Is that a problem?" Tim asked Myrna, standing to the side as she walked past him out of the conference room.

She gave him an amused look, shaking her head. "You have no idea how difficult it is to be a woman."

"What has that got to do with getting ready for dinner?"

"Everything," she said matter-of-factly. "Guys have to throw on a suit and some cologne, maybe slick back their hair, and they're done. Women, on the other hand, have to put on the proper bindings, squeeze into stockings and their dress, meticulously do their hair, and make-up their faces perfectly. It's a completely different ballgame, Thom."

Pushing herself up, she gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "I'd better get going now to assure that I finish in time. I'll see you tonight, though?"

"Yeah, it's a date," Tim agreed without thinking about what he was saying. When it dawned on him, he began back tracking, hoping Myrna wouldn't get the wrong impression. "Uh, not that I meant a date as though we're dating…I just meant that I'll be there and you'll be there and…uh…we'll be there…together…but with other people…and, uh…"

"It's a date," Myrna confirmed before Tim could talk himself into hyperventilation.

As she walked off, Tim couldn't help but watch her go. His interest didn't go unnoticed.

"McGee!" Gibbs barked. "Is your mind on the job?"

"Uh…yes, boss," he whispered, certain that no one was listening. "I am one hundred percent focused."

"Well, that's good to know; but you're released for the rest of the weekend."

Tim grinned in relief. "Really?"

"Yes, really. We're going to be working from this end for the remainder of today and tomorrow."

"Thank you, boss!"

"McGee, before you completely disconnect, remember that whoever killed Robinson may still be there. Just because you're not on surveillance doesn't mean you shouldn't be on your toes," Gibbs warned. "If you think something's hinky, call us."

"I will, boss," Tim promised.

"Aw! It was just starting to get good," Abby lamented. "I guess I won't see how your date ends."

"No, Abby," Tim replied smugly, pulling the earwig from his ear, "you won't."


	13. Chapter 13

The ballroom had been transformed since the previous night's dinner. Dark red velour curtains hung over the mirror windows, tied back with gold, braided ropes. White lilies sat in red vases and adorned every flat surface available in the ballroom. A larger band than the one from the night before was in the process of setting up on the stage. They were all dressed in matching tuxedos, except for the female singer who wore a black, sequined dress. As they waited for the music to begin, some couples took a turn around the dance floor. To the side of the stage was a table loaded with the awards that would be given out that evening.

Doormen stood holding open the double doors as people entered, greeting them cordially. A wait staff was lining up inside the kitchen as the chefs prepared the evening's meal. Other waiters walked about to the tables, filling up glasses with water or delivering cocktails upon request. The tables were set up with beautiful white table cloths, crystal wine glasses, white and gold china, each with a white napkin folded atop, and silverware set up along the sides. In the middle of the table were two bottles of wine, one a Cabernet Sauvignon and the other a Chardonnay.

Tim had arrived early, but he decided to wait just inside the doors until Myrna arrived. As he waited, he gave himself a quick look in the mirror. He was dressed in a Christian Dior suit which had been purchased especially for the occasion. It had cost him a pretty penny, but he'd wanted to look his best, especially if he were given any awards. His hair was neatly combed and he had opted against going with his usually slicked back look. He'd also sprayed a bit of cologne before walking out the door, just in case. Though he was off surveillance, he had opted to still wear the glasses, especially after Myrna's reaction to them earlier that day.

"Good evening, Mr. Gemcity."

Tim looked up and saw Myrna there, looking him up and down. She wore a silver taffeta dress with a black lace overlay. It had a hemline that came to her knees and a plunging neckline that showed a hint of cleavage. Pinned right at the bottom point of the neckline was a pearl brooch. Her hair was in tight curls, held back with a jeweled clip. Her eyes were darkened with a smokey eye look and her lips were a deep red. He could see what she had meant earlier about how long it took women to prepare for dinner, but the end result, in his opinion, was well worth the wait.

"You look wonderful," she said, leaning up to give him a peck on the cheek.

He felt his face flushing. "You do too." He caught a whiff of a sweet, flowery perfume. Strange how a single smell could affect you in so many ways.

"Mm," she said. "Is that your cologne?" She pushed herself up so that her nose was right by his neck.

"Ah…yeah," he said, not sure how to react to her face being practically pressed into his neck.

"Smells nice."

"Thanks…ah, yours does too. I mean, your perfume does!" Not wanting to harp to long on this, he offered her his arm and led her to one of the empty tables.

"You know, I don't think I have ever met anyone who is as much a gentleman as you are," she commented as he pulled her chair out for the third time that day.

"Can I pour you some wine?" he asked, reaching over to grab the bottle of Chardonnay.

She shook her head. "No, thank you. I'm in the mood for something a bit different." She signaled for one of the waiters and asked him to bring her a dry martini.

"Tell me truth," Tim said as he poured a glass of wine for himself. "Do you actually like martinis, or is it just a part of your 1940's persona?"

"A little of both," she replied with a shrug. "I have to be in the mood for one."

"And what qualifies as being in the mood?"

"A thirst for something nice and hard." When she realized how phallic what she had just said sounded, she covered it with a sheepish laugh, adding, "Alcoholically speaking, of course."

"I didn't think you meant anything else," Tim lied. Myrna had already pegged him for a gentleman and he hoped to keep it that way.

The waiter returned with the vodka cocktail and placed it in front of Myrna. It was clear, like water, save for the two toothpicked olives which floated inside. She lifted it gently to her lips, but paused before actually taking a drink. Instead, she held it out to Tim, gesturing for him to raise his glass as well. "To literature!"

"To literature," he echoed, clinking his own glass against hers. And they drank.

"Yoo-hoo!"

A voice broke out from amongst the crowd and seemed to be directed toward them. When Tim and Myrna looked up, they saw the Frichter couple heading their way, waving wildly to get their attention. Penny was dressed in the gaudiest gown either of them had ever seen, with large, sequins in colors of teal, fuchsia, and gold, and baubles lining her hem. She also looked as though she had taken make-up tips from Boy George. Louis wore a dark colored suit, but with a tie that matched the color palate of his wife's dress. They each carried a tote bag, inside of which one could see stacks of what they could only assume were manuscripts, fresh out of the printers.

Myrna closed her eyes and took a large gulp of her drink. "I'm going to need a couple more of these…"

* * *

"Strangulation was indeed the cause of death, Jethro."

The team was assembled in Autopsy to hear what Ducky had found so far. The investigation had reached a dead end now that Lambard had seemingly confessed to murdering Pfc. Robinson and killed herself. In spite of this, there were so many things that simply weren't adding up. Where did the map go? Even after extensive dumpster diving, Tony hadn't been able to come up with it. And what about Lambard's air-tight alibi? There was no way she could have been in two places at once and, therefore, could not have possible killed Robinson, even if she left a suicide note saying she had.

"Was it caused by her hanging?" Gibbs asked.

"It's possible," Ducky told him. "However, it is just as possible that it was caused by someone wrapping the cord around her neck."

"What about the scratches on her neck?"

"Self-inflicted, judging by the skin beneath her fingers. She likely was clawing at the rope to remove it." When he saw the look Gibbs gave him, Ducky shook his head. "It does not mean that this could not have been suicide, Jethro. Many suicide victims change their minds at the last minute and try to turn back."

Gibbs gave the corpse of Julie Lambard one last look before walking out of Autopsy. Tony and Ziva stayed behind, assessing the body as though they may find some clue as to what had truly happened at her apartment.

"So you're saying we've got nothing, Ducky?"

"On the contrary, Anthony, you have a multitude of things. We just haven't found them yet."

"So…you're saying we've got nothing, Ducky?" he repeated.

"Don't you two have anywhere else to be right now?"

Ziva and Tony exchanged glances above the corpse. "Not really," Ziva admitted. "We've already run down our leads. Now we're waiting for either you or Abby to come across something."

"Ah, such pressure under which to work," Ducky mused.

"I thought you wanted to spy on McGee," Jimmy said. He'd heard Tony and Abby talking about the fact that Tim was on surveillance. Abby had mentioned some woman that had caught Tim's attention, though not as a suspect.

Tony groaned at the reminder. "McGeek's officially off-duty, so I've got no reason _to_ watch." He leaned against the table, arms crossed in front of him, and a prominent pout on his face. "He _would_ get pulled from surveillance the first moment I have free to spy on him and tease him mercilessly."

"I think you are simply jealous because he was flirting with an attractive woman while you were digging through dumpsters."

"Ha! The day I am jealous of the Elf Lord is the day you start speaking perfect English."

"Timothy has met someone?" Ducky asked.

"A woman who is also attending the convention,' Ziva explained. "Her name is Myrna Landry and she seems to have a strange obsession with the 1940's."

"Does she look anything like her namesake?" Tony asked.

"Who?"

"Myrna Loy!" he said in exasperation. "Does she look anything like Myrna Loy?"

"I do not know who that is, Tony."

"Come on! She and William Powell did, like, six _Thin Man_ movies together."

"Ah, yes!" Ducky said. "The illustrious Nick and Nora Charles. I recall seeing the second of the _Thin Man_ films in theaters and…" He trailed off, something suddenly occurring to him.

"And what, Ducky?" Tony asked.

"Yes…of course, that's it!"

Ziva raised an eyebrow, sharing a look with Tony. "What is _it_?"

"Clyde Wynant! That is where I'd heard his name. He is a character in _The Thin Man_. In fact, he _is_ the Thin Man!"

"I'm surprised, Tony! You did not make the movie connection?"

"Hey, I wasn't really paying much attention to the character names other than Nick and Nora. But I thought Nick Charles was the Thin Man, Ducky."

"A common misconception, Anthony."

"So we have a treasure map telling us to find the journal of a fictional character from a mystery novel and film series?" Tony asked, processing the information through his head. "That doesn't make much sense."

Ziva's eyes widened. "No, because we are looking at this in the wrong way. The person who made the map did not mean for us to track down the fictional character. Clyde Wynant is also known as the Thin Man, yes?"

"Yeah, Ziva, Ducky just said that. You should really keep up with us here."

"Tony!" she hissed. "Pfc. Gene Landry was known by the nickname 'Thin Man'!"

"Who is Gene Landry," Ducky asked.

"The grandfather of Myrna Landry!"

"The woman Timothy met?"

"Come on," Tony said, grabbing Ziva's arm. "We've got to tell Gibbs." As they ran out, he looked back over his shoulder, shouting out, "Thanks, Ducky!"


	14. Chapter 14

"So then Penny turned to me and said 'Louie, you should write novels, because you have such a way with words,'" Louie Frichter said to the entire table of people. He and his wife had been monopolizing the conversation, giving the table their life story, starting from when they met in the produce aisle of a grocery store and going through their long and drawn out courting process before their marriage. The others at the table – Tim, Myrna, and two other couples – pretended to listen, though all were nearing the end of their patience.

"Oh, he was such a smooth talker back when we first met!" Penny gushed, grabbing her husband's arm. "He could convince me to do just about anything! There was one night in particular when he was _very_ persuasive," she said, her face flushing as she recalled the night. The table stiffened as they realized exactly what she was most likely implying, hoping she wouldn't go too into detail about the night. "Oh, but I won't go into that," she told them sheepishly. The others at the table let out exhales of relief.

"Then one night I was reading some mystery novel by…oh, what's her name, Louie?"

"What's whose name?"

"That mystery woman who wrote all of those books!"

"Well how should I know?"

"Because, I told you that we could write better mystery novels than her…ah, what was her name? Christine? Agnes Christine?"

"Agatha Christie?" Myrna asked incredulously.

"Yes! That's the one!" Penny shook her head in dismay. "Such a dull novel."

"Agatha Christie?" Myrna repeated. "Agatha Christie dull?"

Penny nodded, missing the look in Myrna's eyes. "Yes, dear, I know! Isn't it just awful?"

There was a terse pause in which the other table patrons – minus Penny and Louie Frichter – wondered if the younger woman was going to throttle the older woman. Instead, though, she turned to Tim and, in a loud voice said, "Of course I'll dance with you, Thom!" She then grabbed his hand and pulled him on to the dance floor.

"Sorry," she said once they'd managed to blend in with the rest of the crowd. "I just knew that if I stayed there another second I would have done something I'd regret."

Tim flushed as she wrapped her arms around his neck. "It's okay. Trust me, I'd rather we did this. Ah, as opposed to you doing something you'd regret," he added. "Not that I'd blame you. I thought I was going to die of boredom when Louie started reading that excerpt from their novel."

"The one in which 'Dewey' and 'Henny' are eating out and they pointlessly talk for two pages about the food? Yeah, I definitely will never look at garlic bread the same way again," she said with a shudder. "What's sad is that they'll probably get a book deal because they've got the whole 'husband and wife' gimmick going for them. Then we'll have an entire series of Dewey and Henney Bricker mysteries."

"And a Dewey and Henney Bricker movie," Tim added with an impish grin.

"I wouldn't go that far. A made-for-TV movie, maybe, but I don't see it hitting the big screen."

The music came to an end and the musicians announced that they would be taking a five minute break. Myrna and Tim reluctantly returned to their table. "Thanks for saving me," she whispered to him. "Even if it was only for a few minutes."

"Anytime," he promised her.

They sat back down, not surprised that the Frichters still had a hold on the conversation. Judging by the faces of the others at the table, they were hoping for something to shut the two up. While everyone else pretended to listen to the verbose couple, Myrna leaned in close to Tim. "I know it's still early and we should stay for the awards ceremony, but when that's over would you like to come up to my hotel room?"

Tim swallowed, feeling his heart rate increase. There was no doubt that he was attracted to Myrna. He was, after all, a human being with human sexual impulses. Still, he didn't want to rush into anything and felt it was only fair to tell her so. "Don't you think we're moving a bit fast?"

"Fast?"

"Well, yeah! I mean, we haven't even gone on a real first date yet. I just don't like to rush right into the sex part."

Myrna regarded him with a touch of confusion which soon transformed into amusement mixed with embarrassment. "I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong idea, Thom. I wasn't propositioning you; I just thought you'd enjoy getting away from more boring anecdotes as mush as I would."

"Oh," he said sheepishly. "Well…now I feel stupid."

"No! I can see how it might sound like an invitation for sex…and please don't think I'm rejecting the idea of…uh…going all the way with you. Just not at this very moment."

"In that case, I accept your invitation," Tim told her.

Her red lips twitched up into a smile. "I'm very glad to hear you say that, Mr. Gemcity."

* * *

"When Landry passed away, he left a journal to his granddaughter," Ziva told Gibbs. "She had spent much of her time reading it when she was growing up. It is possible that, when she and Pfc. Robinson met up on Thursday, he told her about the map, leading to a fight and ultimately his murder."

"He didn't have to tell her about it," Tony said, looking up from his computer. "Julie Lambard already had, in a manner of speaking."

"What are you talking about?"

"Lambard sent an e-mail to Myrna, asking her to bring along her grandfather's journal. She doesn't mention anything about a treasure map, but she does say that Nathan had found something interested in his grandfather's journal and would like to compare it with her grandfather's."

"I thought you were supposed to check her e-mail account," Gibbs said pointedly to Ziva.

Ziva crossed her arms in defense. "I checked for any e-mails from our dead Marine. I had no reason to check for e-mails from Lambard. Besides, who do you think I am? McGee?"

"Speaking of the Elf Lord, shouldn't we call him and let him know that he could be canoodling with a murderer?"

"Landry thinks that he's Thom E. Gemcity and has no reason to think he is at all connected to Robinson's murder," Gibbs said. "McGee should be fine for the time being."

"We don't even know for sure if she actually had anything to do with the murder," Ziva pointed out. "The e-mail said nothing about the map, so we don't even know that she knew about it. And, according to Abby, Landry told McGee she was visiting a bookstore at the time of the murder and returned with purchases from the store."

"Maybe she was setting up an alibi with him," Tony suggested. "The books could have been bought at a different time."

"True," Ziva conceded, though she still wasn't convinced.

"Print out a picture of Landry and fax it to the owner of the bookstore," Gibbs ordered to Ziva. "Ask if he saw her in the store today and at what time."

Ziva nodded She pulled video from Tim's surveillance on the plasma and froze a shot of Myrna to print out.

Tony paused and examined the woman on the plasma. "Is that her?"

"It is."

"Boss, I think that's the other woman who was in the café this morning."

"You think?" Gibbs asked.

"I'm almost positive."

"Well, that places her at the scene when the map disappeared," Ziva commented. "I must admit, things are not looking good for Ms. Landry."

The phone on his desk rang and Gibbs snatched it up. "Gibbs."

"You might want to get down here!" Abby called out excitedly.

"Yeah, we'll be right there," he said before returning the phone to the cradle. "Abby's got something."

"Hopefully it's more than we've got," Tony commented as he and Ziva followed behind Gibbs.

* * *

"The award for Most Creative Death goes to…" Patricia Kroger paused, pulling the envelope open. "Gigi Garner for her novel _Bloodsplatter_!"

The crowd broke into applause as a young woman stood and walked to the stage to receive her award. The awards ceremony had begun with achievements in goriness, death scenes, dialogue, and surprise endings, and now they were getting on to the more prestigious awards, such as those for plot and characterization, and, of course, the awards for overall writing.

"Our next award is for Outstanding Plot. This award recognizes the writer who has best displayed a strong storyline with clever nuances. And the award for Outstanding Plot goes to…Patrick Dooley for the novel _The Striped Walls_!"

"Definitely overrated," Myrna whispered to Tim as the crowd once again applauded. "It's not a bad story, but it seems like he went out of his way to add as many plot twists as he could to it, and the ending was _still_ predictable. Troy Folger's _Broken Mirror_ was much better."

Tim nodded, not wanting to admit that he hadn't read either of them. Work at NCIS had been eating most of his time, so it was understandable that he couldn't be expected to know the ins and outs of every mystery novel that had been published that year. Of course, he couldn't explain that to her; as far as Myrna knew, he was "between jobs" and "assessing his options."

"Next, we have the award for Outstanding Characterizations. This award recognizes the writer who has created strong and relatable characters. And the award for Outstanding Characterization goes to…Thom E. Gemcity for _Rock Hollow_!"

Tim sat for a moment, stunned. He hadn't given thought to the idea of winning an award, especially not one of the more prestigious awards. He heard the applause, but he didn't move until someone sitting behind him pushed against his back, pulling him out of his shock. He stumbled up to the stage and accepted the award – the statuette was shaped like a revolver, and on the barrel was written "Mystery and Crime Writers Association" – giving Patricia Kroger an obligatory kiss on the cheek, before returning to his seat. The entire thing happened so quickly he barely had the time to process it through his mind.

"Congratulations!" Myrna exclaimed, giving him a peck on the cheek.

"I…wow. I wasn't expecting this," he admitted.

"Really? Your characters are great! They're so real!"

Tim ducked his head down, glad that no one at NCIS was listening at the moment. "Ah, yeah, I suppose they are."

"And our final award is for Best Overall Writer. This award recognizes the writer who has created the strongest overall story of the year, including strong characters, a strong plot, and a strong flow of words. And the award for Best Overall Writer goes to…" she trailed off, looking down at the card she pulled from the envelope. A smile broke out on her face. "Again, Mr. Thom E. Gemcity!"

This time, Tim was a bit more at ease when he went to accept his second award. He had never thought much about them – he preferred to write simply for the self-satisfaction – but he had to admit that being the proud owner of two shiny awards was very satisfactory, even if they weren't likely to impress his co-workers when he told them on Monday. So far, this was shaping up to be a fulfilling weekend.

He returned to his seat as Kroger congratulated all of winners and thanked everyone for attending the formal dinner. Myrna looked up at Tim, jerking her head toward the door. He nodded, content to slip away from what remained of the dinner. The two merged with the crowd and slipped out of the ballroom almost completely undetected.

"Tomorrow, I'm going to pay people to sit around me at the brunch so I don't get stuck listening to them read more excerpts allowed from their manuscript," she mumbled as she jabbed the button for her floor. "I think the problem, though, is that I've associated myself with you."

"Me?"

She nodded. "Mm-hm. You're a well-known writer who could give a good bit of advice to other aspiring writers. They see you as some sort of gateway to publishers, as though you can push a person's manuscript on your publisher and she'll just publish it based on your recommendation."

Tim mused on the idea of him pushing a manuscript on Crawshaw and expecting her to publish it. He didn't think she'd go for it.

"Now that you've won those awards, they're going to be on you like a fake tan on Lindsay Lohan."

"I hope that doesn't mean you'll begin avoiding me."

Myrna laughed. "As much as I want to avoid the Frichters, no, I won't. You'll need someone to help you keep your sanity while they bore you to tears."

The elevator doors opened and Tim followed Myrna to one of the doors down the hall. "I've got this great documentary ok on Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the history of Sherlock Holmes," she told him as she slipped the key card in and out. "It's really interesting, if you want to watch it."

They entered the small room, the door closing behind them. Tim gave the room a look. The bed was a mess, the covers strewn every which way, and clothing had been tossed atop it sloppily. It certainly wasn't the cleanest hotel room he'd ever seen. "Did the maids skip your room?" he asked. It was all he got out before something hit him on the back of his head and everything went black.


	15. Chapter 15

"Abbs?" Gibbs called out as he, Tony, and Ziva entered the laboratory. The music of Plastic Death cut through the air, nearly deafening the trio.

The Goth ran in excitedly and grabbed the older man by the hand. "Gibbs! Major Mass Spec finally told me what was on the lead pipe that killed Nathan Robinson. Well, it was a mixture of chemicals, actually, but the one that was most prevalent was hydrogen nitride."

Gibbs raised his eyebrows. "In English?"

"Ammonia."

"Ammonia?" Tony echoed, his eyebrow arched. "What the heck is ammonia doing on the lead pipe?"

"Obviously, Tony, it was handled by someone who also handles ammonia. The solution was diluted, so it was likely being used for cleaning."

"Perhaps by a janitor?" Ziva suggested.

"Very likely," Abby confirmed. "The other chemicals were also things you'd find in cleaning materials. If the killer was a custodian and he was wearing cleaning gloves, they were probably covered with chemicals from cleaning solutions."

"That would certainly narrow down the suspects," Tony said, "_if_ the killer was a janitor. For all we know the lead pipe was handled by one of the janitors before it was used in the murder."

"Well, I found traces of the same chemicals on the rope found around Julie Lambard's neck and on the keys of her laptop, so I think it's safe to say our murderer is a student of the custodial arts."

"That also means that Lambard's death was most likely a homicide," Ziva said.

Gibbs turned to Ziva and Tony. "Which custodians were inside the building at the time of Robinson's death?"

"Officially, only Steve Winters and Danny Granger," Ziva said, "but Tommy Green was also there, only he was working off the clock."

"So where does Landry fit into all of this?" Tony asked. "We know she was contacted by Lambard about her grandfather's journal, but if she didn't murder Robinson, then how was she involved?"

"Perhaps she wasn't involved," Ziva suggested.

"At this point, we can't rule anyone out," said Gibbs.

"Should we call McGee?" she asked. "Perhaps he could keep an eye on the custodians for suspicious behavior."

"Oh, you don't need to do that," Abby told them. "He's still wearing the glasses, so we can still see whatever he sees."

"He's still wearing them?" Gibbs asked.

"Yeah. I think it has something to do with that Myrna girl telling him he looks good in them," Abby added with a smirk.

"Why don't you have it up on the screen?"

"Well, he wasn't officially on surveillance any more so I figured I shouldn't spy. Not to mention, it's really boring without being able to hear what they're actually saying," she admitted.

"Abbs, could you pull the footage up on the screen?" He turned to Tony and Ziva, pointing to the door. "Grab the car. I'll meet you out there in five minutes.

"Is your gut telling you something, boss?" Tony asked as Abby brought the footage from Tim's glasses up on her computer screen.

"More than one thing, DiNozzo."

* * *

Tim groaned as his head throbbed. His hand gently rested on the back of his head where the object had hit him, but that only increased the pain. He wanted to sit up, but it was a bit difficult due to the boot that was situated on his back, pushing him down.

"Where the hell is it?" a voice from above him demanded.

"Where is what?" was the quivering response.

"Don't fuck with me!"

Tim struggled to look up at the person who stood over him. Despite being held down by someone's foot, Tim managed to gently twist his neck far enough to see a man standing above him, one foot resting on Tim's back. He recognized the man as Tommy Green, one of the hotel's janitors. He was still dressed in coveralls and he was holding a gun which was aimed at Myrna.

"I swear, I don't know what you're talking about," Myrna said, her voice trembling. She was standing flat against the wall of the hotel room, her hands up in the air. Gone from her eyes was the playful glint, replaced with a wide-eyed stare at their captor. She didn't appear to be hurt, but there was no doubt that she was terrified.

"And I swear I will shoot you," Green replied. Tim could see that the gun in his grasp was shaking, though he wasn't sure if it was due to anger or fear.

"Please…just tell me what you want and I'll get it for you."

The heel of Green's boot dug down deeper into Tim's torso, sending a flash of pain down his back. He scrunched his eyes closed, biting back a squeal of pain. His body went flat against the floor and his head fell back down. When he opened his eyes again he caught Myrna's eyes and he could see just how frightened she was.

"Let her go," Tim slurred. His request was met with a heel to the back of his neck.

"Shut up!" Green bellowed. He pressed his foot down further into Tim's neck, hoping to quiet the young man.

"Just tell me what you want!" Myrna repeated, close to tears. "I'll get it for you! Just…just please don't hurt us…"

"The journal!"

Her brow furrowed, not sure what Green was talking about. "Journal?"

"Stop playing stupid! I want the journal!"

Tim saw a flash of realization cross Myrna's face. She obviously realized what this guy was looking for.

"Okay," she said softly, nodding slowly. "It's down in my car. I left it in the glove compartment. I'll give you the keys and you can go get it."

Green's aim didn't waiver, but he eased the pressure on Tim's neck. His lips were pursed as he considered the situation. This obviously wasn't going the way he had planned it would and he wasn't sure how to proceed now.

After a few moments of thinking, he motioned for Myrna to move away from the wall. "We'll go together," he said affirmatively. "And if you are lying to me…" he trailed off, letting his gun finish the sentence.

"I'm not," she swore. "It's down there…you can have it."

Tim felt Green's boot leave his neck and the man grabbed his arm, pulling him roughly to his feet. The pounding pain was reverberating inside his head and his muscles felt like liquid, so he couldn't quite muster up the strength to actually fight Green. Besides, the janitor struck him as being jumpy and Tim didn't want to agitate him. If Green felt intimidated or trapped, he wouldn't hesitate to shoot and that could lead to Tim or Myrna getting hurt – or worse. He had to take this easy, for both of their sakes.


	16. Chapter 16

"Abby, what's going on?" Gibbs asked.

"Well, they just got off the elevator…I think it's the seventh floor."

The team was tearing down the road with Gibbs at the wheel, weaving in and out of cars in an attempt to get to the hotel as quickly as possible. Abby was on the speaker phone letting them know what she was seeing from Tim's perspective. The surveillance had been uneventful thus far, consisting mostly of soundless conversations with Myrna. The only thing of slight interest Abby had seen happen was Tim winning his awards. Aside from that, it was turning out to be one of the dullest surveillance videos she'd ever watched.

"Landry's hotel room is room 710," Ziva commented.

"Maybe Probie's gonna get lucky," Tony joked. He was given a slap on the head in return.

"Could be," Abby confirmed. "They just arrived at her room."

Tony started bopping his head, singing "Bow chicka wow wow!"

"Bow chicka what what?" Ziva asked.

"You know...bow chicka wow wow !" he said as though it were a crystal clear explanation.

"If I knew would I have asked, Tony?"

He sighed in exasperation. "Haven't you ever watched 70's porn? When the mood gets all sexy and the woman is laid out on the fur covered bed..."

"DiNozzo!" Gibbs snapped, causing the younger agent to sit back and cut off his thought.

"Sorry, boss."

"I feel kind of dirty for watching this," Abby said. "I hope he remembers that anything he does in that room might be seen by Tony." There was a pause and then they all heard a soft gasp. "Gibbs, I think he's hurt!"

"What happened, Abbs?"

"He fell…and he isn't getting up!"

Tony and Ziva exchanged worried glances. "Perhaps Landry _is_ the murderer after all," Ziva said in a strained tone.

"She figured out who McGee really is and now he's a threat," Tony added.

"If she's involved she isn't alone," Abby told them. "The person who knocked him out is male. And he's got a gun!"

No one said anything as Gibbs' floored the accelerator.

* * *

Green pushed him down into one of the hotel chairs and tossed a length of cord to Myrna. "Tie him up," he ordered, pointing his gun at Tim. When she hesitated he bellowed, "Do it!" causing both her and Tim to jump slightly.

Myrna knelt down beside the chair. "I'm sorry about this," she whispered as she began circling the cord around his wrists.

Tim tried to give her a comforting smile. "Don't worry about it. It's not like you have much of a choice."

Her hands were trembling as she looped the remainder of the cord through the arm of the chair, wrapped it over the top, and tied it into a knot, effectively keeping Tim's bound wrists attached to the chair. Tim could tell right away that the cord hadn't been bound too tightly, be it an intentional move by her or simply a lack of tying ability from her. If Green didn't notice the sloppy binding, Tim may be able to work the cord off of his wrists and follow behind them. It wasn't much of a plan, he knew, but it was a start.

Myrna straightened up and nervously looked at Green, not sure what to do next. The janitor gestured his gun toward the door, barely giving Tim another glance. Tim inwardly let out a small sigh of relief.

"Come on," Green huffed, grabbing Myrna roughly by the arm. She opened the door at his command and he pushed her out, leaving Tim alone in the hotel room.

* * *

"He's gone," Abby announced. "He took her and bolted."

The agents had just entered the hotel while Abby continued to give them a play-by-play of what was happening in Landry's room. The lobby was nearly empty. Matthew Keach was at the front desk, checking in a couple who had arrived rather late and a few people were staggered about the lobby reading, talking, and admiring the hotel decor.

"If he took her against her will, he probably won't take the elevator and risk running into someone else," Tony theorized. "We should find out how many open stairways there are."

"Agent Gibbs," Keach greeted as the team approached the desk. "How is the investigation going?"

"How many sets of stairs are there in this hotel?"

Keach was taken aback by the question, not sure what the stairways had to do with anything. "Well, we have an east stairway and a west stairway," he explained, pointing toward the two different stairways. "We also have two emergency exit stairways."

"Would those sound alarms if opened?"

"Yes, sir."

"Green would not risk setting off an alarm," Ziva said.

"Green?" Keach asked. "As in Tommy Green, our janitor?"

Gibbs didn't answer the desk clerk's question. "Which of the available stairways is closest to the room 710?"

"Uh, the east stairway," Keach said as he consulted the hotel layout. "Sir, if there is something going on, I need to know so I can-'

"I want you to call for the police," Gibbs ordered. "And if you see Green come through here, stall him."

"Stall him? How?"

"I don't care how! Just be subtle about it. He may be armed," he said as he sprinted off with the other two in tow.

"This would be easier if we knew where he intended on taking her," Ziva commented. "For all we know, he's taking her to an upstairs area."

"Ziva, I want you to go up to Landry's room and get McGee. See if he knows where they may be headed. I'll take the east stairs and Tony, I want you to take the west stairway in case he goes that way. We'll go up the stairs and see if we run into him."

"Yes, boss," they both chorused before they each ran off to their individual assignments.

"Agent Gibbs!" Keach called. "What is going on here? Are we in any danger?"

"Just do what I told you to do!" he barked before sprinting off toward the east stairway.


	17. Chapter 17

Tommy Green was in far over his head, and no one knew it better than he did. This entire ordeal was unraveling rapidly, all of his plans falling apart right before his eyes. This was _not_ what he'd had in mind.

The plan was supposed to have been fool proof. Robinson would contact his friend about her grandfather's journal, asking her to bring it when she came to the hotel. They would steal it, using whatever means necessary, and, according to the map found in the elder Robinson's journal, would be rich.

Why did Robinson have to go and get all nervous? Why couldn't he have stuck to the plan? If Green hadn't had to kill Robinson, the Navy cops wouldn't have shown up and no one would have been the wiser.

When Julie had first approached him about the treasure map, he'd been ecstatic. He could retire with Julie to a nice little area where they'd do nothing all day, save for maybe a dip in the pool. Now, though, he was facing two counts of murder and had taken a hostage. Not exactly the ending he'd been hoping for. Worse, he had no idea what to do next. Julie had been the brains behind the scheme, while he had been something of the brawns.

After he closed the door to the room, he glanced down each hall. It was clear. Did he risk using the elevator? No, he decided, it would be smarter to take the stairs. Most people didn't take the stairs, so there was less a chance of running into someone. Once he got down there, he could take her out the back entrance to her car.

"If you try anything, I'll shoot you," he warned, aiming the gun at her stomach. She nodded wearily in response. Green grabbed her arm and pulled her down toward the east side stairs.

They had only made it down two flights when Green heard the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs toward them. He quickly pulled open the door for the fifth floor and pushed Myrna into the hall, gun still pointed at her abdomen. He let the door close, but he kept an ear against it and listened.

Myrna subtly glanced down the hall. Not a person in sight. Her options were few. She couldn't scream or he'd shoot. She could try to run for it, but she had a feeling that he'd catch her, especially considering she was in heels. Besides, his grasp on her arm was far too tight for her to get away without an intense struggle - one she was certain she would lose.

And then she saw it. That red box situated on the wall with white lettering. The fire alarm. It was certainly within her reach. One quick pull and the alarm would blare. Could she write it off as an accident? Or would the sound stun him long enough to escape his grasp? Should she chance it, or should she resign herself to being forced out to her car to get him what he wanted? There was little doubt in her mind that he would kill her as soon as she gave it to him. Perhaps then he'd go back up to her room and finish off Thom.

"Don't even think about it!" he hissed into her ear, pulling her from her thoughts. He yanked her back against him, further away from the fire alarm, effectively killing her plan before she could set it into action.

The footsteps which had forced them into the hallway disappeared above them and soon they could hear nothing at all. Green waited a few moments before he flung the door open once again and pushed her into the stairway.

"If you try something so stupid..."

"You'll shoot me," she finished monotonously. "I know."

To prove his point, he jabbed the barrel of the gun harshly into the tender area below her rib cage. She doubled over in pain, letting out a slight gasp. He gave her a couple of seconds of recovery before pulling her down the remaining steps. "Move it!" he hissed. He was going to get this treasure if it killed him.

* * *

As Tim had estimated, it didn't take long for him to free himself from the bindings, though it did leave a few marks on his wrists, caused by the friction of the hoarse cord rubbing against his bare skin. As soon as the door had closed behind Green, Tim tugged at the cord and separated his wrists as far as he could. After doing this for a couple of minutes, he managed to slacken the cord enough to extract his hands. Without another thought, Tim sprang from his seat to the door. He wasn't armed and he didn't actually have a plan, but he'd play it by ear.

"McGee!"

He had only just stepped out of the room when he heard Ziva calling to him. The woman was sprinting down the hall toward him, gun in hand. "Ziva! It's Green!"

"We know!"

"And he has Myrna!"

"We know!" she repeated. "Do you know where they are going?"

"Uh, he asked her something about a journal. She said it was in her car." He glanced around expectantly. "Where're Tony and Gibbs?"

"Staking out the stairways. Are you alright?"

Tim instinctively rubbed the back of his head where Green had struck him. "I've got a killer headache, but I'll survive."

"Gibbs," Ziva said into her receiver, "he's taking her down to her car. McGee's fine. He and I will go down to the parking lot in case Green has already past you or Tony."

"Ziva, do you have your back-up?" Tim asked. He patted his sides to indicate that he wasn't armed.

She reached into a holster attached to her ankle and extracted a gun. "Here," she said as she handed it to him. "We've got to hurry."

* * *

He pulled her out the back door into the small area behind the hotel. The parking lot was on the other side. "Where are you parked?" he asked as they walked along the side wall of the hotel. It was almost pitch black outside, with only a couple of street lamps providing illumination.

Myrna pointed mutely to a small, black compact car that was tucked away in a back spot. The parking lot was desolate and Green felt comfortable to loosen his grip on her arm and to lower his weapon as he dragged her to the car.

"Open it," he ordered.

She pulled out her keys and hit the unlock button. A soft click from within the car let him know it was open, but he wasn't about to reach in and get it. Instead, he nodded to the car, telling Myrna, "Get it out." She leaned in through the driver side door and unhooked the glove compartment. When she righted herself, she was holding a worn, leather journal.

"Are you happy now?" she asked in a soft tone.

It was then that Green became aware of nearing footsteps pounding into the pavement. His spine straightened and his muscles tightened. The gun rose again and he took a hold of Myrna once more, this time with her in front of him and his arm encircling her neck. Her body was pressed tightly against his and the gun was pressed directly against her side. The journal which had been in her hands dropped to the concrete, papers spilling out from within.

"Green!" Ziva called out as she rounded the corner with Tim close behind. "Drop the weapon!"

Myrna was shocked to see the man she'd come to know as Thom E. Gemcity rounding the corner with a gun in his hands, holding it with skill and confidence. He almost looked like a completely different man.

"Let her go," Tim commanded. His gun was aimed for the man's head, his finger pressing restlessly on the trigger.

Green pressed the gun in further against his hostage, causing her to squirm out of both fear and pain. "I _will_ shoot," he warned, though he couldn't keep the uncertainty out of his voice. He knew he was trapped and had little chance of getting out of this. But he wasn't going to go down so easily. "Put your guns down!"

"You're outnumbered and there are more on the way. Make it easier on yourself."

"And then what? I'm looking at a lengthy prison sentence."

"Do you want it to be longer?" Tim asked. "You're not doing yourself any favors."

Tim and Ziva saw Green's grip loosen for a moment, the gun barrel fall slightly, but in a snap he was fully composed again. "I'm not stupid! I let her go and I'm dead."

"If you do not let her go you are dead," Ziva warned. "You do not want to take a chance."

It was a terse moment of silence. One gun pointed at a hostage; two guns pointed at a criminal. It was anyone's guess how it would turn out.

"Okay," Green said softly. "Okay, I'm done."

"Then lower your weapon," Ziva said, not letting down her guard for a moment.

After a moment of hesitation, the gun slowly dropped from its place in Myrna's side and then fell to the concrete with a clatter. Tim and Ziva also lowered their guns and stepped in toward Green and Myrna. It was then that he shoved Myrna toward the pair and ran as they collected themselves..

Tim caught Myrna as Ziva took off after the man. "Ziva, do you need help?" he called out to her as she ran. His question was answered when Ziva lunged at Green, tackling him to the ground, and pinned his arms roughly behind his back. "I guess not..."

"Thom?"

He looked down and saw a dazed and shaky Myrna looking up at him with confusion. "What's going on?"

"Uh...it's kind of a long story..." he said sheepishly as he led her back to the hotel.

"Oh…" she said wearily. "Sounds like it could make for a good book."


	18. Chapter 18

"Wow…this is so...bizarre!" Myrna said with a mixture of curiosity and amusement as she looked over the treasure map which insinuated that her grandfather's journal held the key to a hidden treasure. She was seated in the lobby along with the team while excited spectators, having heard that there had been a stand-off with police in the hotel parking lot, piled in from all around. After being slammed to the ground by Ziva, Green had been handcuffed and placed in the back of a squad car, now on his way to NCIS headquarters. He was facing charges for murder, kidnapping, theft, and assault on a federal officer.

"Any truth to it?" Tim asked.

"Thom – _Tim_," she quickly corrected with a slight smile, "I've read my grandfather's journal cover to cover and I can promise you that I haven't seen anything about a treasure." She picked up the journal and handed it to Gibbs, telling him, "You're welcome to go through it yourself, but I don't know what you hope to find."

Elbowing his way through the crowd, Rodney Toole sprinted forward, an intense look of worry reading all over his face. "Ms. Landry, Mr Gemcity! Please let me be the first to extend my deepest apologies to you," Toole gushed as he approached them. Keach had called him and explained the situation, sensing that the actions of the hotel's employee could result in a law suit from either of the two guests. Toole couldn't get there quickly enough.

"It's fine," she assured him, slightly taken aback.

"No," he insisted, laying it on thick, "we hold our employees to a much higher standard than this! I hope that neither you or Mr. Gemcity thinks this is at a normal occurrence for us. To make it up to you we won't be charging either of you for this weekend."

"Well, thank you, Mr…?"

"Toole," he introduced, kneeling beside her chair like a servant, waiting to do her biding (so long as it wouldn't cost him more money than it was worth). "Rodney Toole. I'm the hotel proprietor."

"Mr. Toole, thank you."

"If there is anything else – anything at all–"

"You can get back to doing your job and let us finish speaking with Ms. Landry," Gibbs interrupted, politely pulling the man to his feet and gently pushing him in the opposite direction.

"Oh my goodness!" Penny Frichter's all too recognizable voice cut through the air. "Darling, are you two hurt?" The robust woman pushed through the crowd with her husband in tow. "We heard that there had been a hostage situation and it had something to do with that murder two days ago, so when I saw you sitting here with all these police around I got so worried I pulled Louie right up out of his seat and ran to make sure you were okay," she explained with out faltering or even pausing for a breath.

"Ma'am, who are you?" Gibbs asked, stepping in front of the couple before they could reach Tim and Myrna.

"Oh, I'm Penny Frichter. This is my husband, Louie. We're here with the Mystery and Crime Writers Association."

"You're writers?"

"Yes, sir. In fact, we just happen to have a copy of our manuscript right here if you're interested in taking a look." She leaned in a whispered conspiratorially, "The main characters are based on us."

"Mrs. Frichter, we're in the middle of something, so if you could wait–"

"Are you in the FBI?" she asked in awe.

"We're with NCIS."

"NCIS?" she said with a frown. "I thought you were federal agents."

"We are," Tony said, stepping in before Gibbs did something rash. He gave the woman a charming smile. "We investigate crimes involving men and women belonging to the Navy and Marine Corps."

The woman's eyes grew in excitement as Tony led her back toward the crowd. "Oh, could I ask you a few questions about your work? Louie, get a pen and paper!"

Gibbs shook his head, though a smile played on his lips, as he turned back to Myrna. "I'm sure you must be drained after the events of tonight. You're free to go up to your room for the night, but we may have more questions for you later on."

"That's fine," she said with a tired smile. "I'm sorry I couldn't have been of more help to your investigation."

"Excuse me! Are you the ones who were interested in some treasure map Mr. Robinson used to have?"

Gibbs turned to see a well-dressed man making his way toward the group. "That depends on who's asking."

"Uh, boss," Tim said in a hushed tone, "this is Randy Veux. Tony spoke to him earlier this morning."

"I take it you're the one in charge?" Randy asked.

"I am," Gibbs confirmed. "I'm Agent Gibbs. How can I help you?"

"I spoke with one of your agents earlier today, Agent Gibbs, and he alluded to a map which Mr. Robinson may have owned. At first, I had no idea what he was talking about, but then I remembered something that may be connected with your investigation"

"McGee," Gibbs called, gesturing for the young agent to hand him the map they had found within the elder Robinson's journal. He handed the paper over to Randy. "Do you recall seeing this before, Mr. Veux?"

Randy glanced over the map, studying the words and markings. A slight smile spread over his face and he began nodding slowly. "Yes, sir, I do," he said.

"And you know what it refers to?"

"Yes," Randy said once again. "However, I don't think you'll like my answer."

"Try me."

"Mr. Robinson and I both had a passion for mystery and crime novels. We were always suggesting novels for the other to read, talking about the one's we'd read. It was fun to talk with someone who was as interested in the genre as I was."

"And how does the map fit in to all of this?"

"Well, at one point, Mr. Robinson thought he might try his hand at writing a mystery novel. I can't remember the exact plot, but it was based on his time spent with the Marines and many of the characters were based on his friends. He told me it was to be based around a treasure map, the code for which was hidden in another journal. He showed me what he wanted the map to look like, just to get my opinion." Randy shrugged. "I guess he never got around to actually writing it."

"Are you certain that this is the same map he showed you back then?" Ziva asked.

"Oh, I'm positive," he affirmed. "I remember thinking it was a bit contrived, though, of course, I didn't tell _him_ that."

"Did anyone else know about this map?"

"Not as far as I know. He seemed a bit embarrassed by the whole thing, not really wanting to admit that he dabbled in writing. He never brought it up to me again."

There was a terse silence as Tim, Ziva, Tony, and Gibbs exchanged glances, this new information sinking in. The map was a fraud which had led to nothing but the deaths of two people, and almost more. There was most likely no treasure to be found. They wondered how Green would react to this new development.

"Thank you, Mr. Veux," Ziva said as she gently took the map back. "We appreciate you letting us know."

"We would still like to keep your grandfather's journal," Gibbs told Myrna. "We have to examine every option."

She shrugged in response, obviously tired and ready to retire to her hotel room. "Just please take good care of it."

"McGee, why don't you escort Ms. Landry to her hotel room," Gibbs suggested.

"Yes, boss."

"And then...go to your own hotel room. We won't need you for the rest of the weekend."

Tim smiled a weary smile of relief. "Promise?"

"McGee, I swear on DiNozzo's life."


	19. Chapter 19

"A federal agent," Myrna commented as they rode up in the elevator. "That was…" she trailed off, trying to find the best way to finish her thought.

"Shocking?" Tim supplied.

"Not what I expected," she finished. "So do you prefer 'Tim' or 'Thom'?"

He laughed, amused by the fact that someone was actually asking which name he wanted used when referring to him. "Well, I'm usually called anything from 'McGeek' to 'Elf Lord,' so between 'Tim' and 'Thom' I don't have much of a preference."

"Elf Lord?"

"Don't ask."

"Noted."

The elevator opened to the seventh floor. Tim placed a hand in the elevator doorway, gesturing for Myrna to step off.

"I hate to think that two people died over something that was meant to entertain," she said. "I mean, it kind of makes you wonder how your art can affect people."

Tim winced, recalling how his own writing had resulted in the deaths of two innocent people. It was true that creating fiction came with great responsibility. The difference here, of course, was that _Deep Six_ had obviously been fiction, while nothing could have indicated that Robinson's map was a fraud.

"Sometimes the lines between fiction and reality can be blurred," he said, making no comments about his own experience with a disillusioned fan, "especially when people want to see something that isn't there."

The door to her hotel room loomed nearby and soon the couple would part company, at least for the night.

Myrna groaned. "I have a mess to clean up," she lamented. "I think I'm just going to shove it all off and slide into bed." Tim couldn't deny that the thought of jumping into his nice, comfortable bed was an inviting one.

"Are you going to be okay?" he asked gently. "I know it's been kind of a crazy night."

"Kind of?" she repeated with a weary smile. "It was _extremely_ crazy. But then, I suppose you're more used to these kinds of things than I am."

"I just want to make sure…I mean, it's okay if you're still scared from it all."

"A bit," she admitted. "But I'll be fine. Lord knows it could have been worse."

Tim didn't even want to think of the worst possible outcome.

"Besides, you're the one who took a blow to the head," she said. "Sorry about that, by the way."

"You're not he one who hit me."

"Yeah, but it was my suggestion to go to my room and…well, you could have been safe and sound at the dinner instead of tied to my hotel chair with what I'm sure was a killer headache."

"True, but if I'd stayed down there I'd have been bored to tears having to listen to the Frichters." He gave her a wry smile, confiding, "I think I got the better end of the deal."

She leaned back against her hotel door, her hair falling softly around her shoulders. She was smiling, but Tim could see in her eyes just how tired she was. "I would love to invite you in, but my room's a mess."

"I don't mind a mess."

"Aren't you afraid you'll end up tied to a chair again?"

"That's not necessarily a bad thing," he said playfully. He grinned when his commented evoked a laugh from Myrna.

"As entertaining as that sounds, I don't think I have the energy to do anything right now."

"It's fine," he assured her. He wasn't looking for an invitation into her room, but he was hoping to prolong the night's good-bye.

"I was really enjoying the evening with you…until you were hit on the back of the head."

"So was I."

"Thank you for coming to my rescue."

He shrugged modestly. "I can't take credit for all of that. Ziva's the one who took him down."

"But you're the one who knew where we'd be," she said firmly. "Don't brush off a compliment, Tim. You should be proud of being a hero."

"I'm not a hero."

Myrna placed two fingers against his lips, leveling him with a semi-stern look. "Yes, you are, and I am very grateful." Her fingers were replaced by her lips against his in a small kiss. It only lasted a second before she pulled away, her red, lipstick covered lips creating a puckering sound as they peeled away from his.

"Goodnight, Tim."

It was only after the hotel door was closed that Tim pulled himself out of his daze, replying softly, "Goodnight, Myrna."


	20. Chapter 20

It wasn't much of a surprise that Tim was hailed as something of a celebrity at the brunch the next morning. If his prestigious wins in the previous evening's ceremony hadn't marked him as a celebrity to the convention's attendants, then his involvement in the Janitor Standoff – as it was coming to be known – had cinched the deal. He had barely even stepped into the dining area in which the brunch was being held before being accosted by his fellow writers and wannabe writers. Questions ranging from his own particular writing process to what it's like to shoot a gun hit him from all sides. The crowd surged about him, effectively trapping him. He was lucky to even get to a seat.

"Have you ever shot someone?"

"Yes."

"Can you show me how to handcuff a person?"

"Not right now."

"When you write, do you prefer complete quiet, or do you have something on in the back ground?"

"I play music to help me concentrate."

"What's the strangest crime you've ever investigated?"

"Well, a lot of them have been strange."

"Does it scare you when people shoot at you?"

"Of course it does."

"Do you use things from your work with NCIS in your writing?"

"Sometimes."

Unsurprisingly, the group was headed by the ever pushy Penny Frichter, who was taking it upon herself to milk Tim for a play-by-play of the case, beginning with the murder of Pfc. Robinson and ending with the culmination of events which resulted in the Janitor Standoff. Her detailed note taking did not go unnoticed.

"Ma'am," he said patiently as he warded off the prying, "I cannot divulge the details of the case. All I can tell you is that Pfc. Robinson and Julie Lambard were murdered and we believe we have the murderer in custody."

"Oh, come now, sweetie" she urged with a cheeky smile. "You can trust me. It'll be just between us writers."

He was just nearing the end of his rope and planning to pull a Hulk when the speakers came to life with the sound of someone tapping against a microphone. The crowd turned their attention to the stage where Patricia Kroger was standing with Rick Watson in tow. "I understand there was a bit of excitement last night and I know you are all buzzing about it, but brunch will begin soon, so could I please ask you all to take your seats?"

As the crushing crowd dissipated, Tim sent up a silent prayer of thanks for Kroger. He didn't even mind that Penny decided to situate herself directly beside him. It wasn't until someone sat in the chair on his other side that Tim noticed Myrna's absence.

"This is our last get-together for the convention, so Rick and I would like to take the moment to thank you all for your enthusiasm! It's wonderful to see so many lovers of mystery and crime novels, and I have no doubt that we'll be seeing a lot of you on the bestseller lists in the near future," Kroger said, earning a bit of applause and laughter from the crowd assembled there.

"Present at this brunch are representatives from Brookstone Publishing, Athena Publishing, Hyperbolic Publishing, and Fleur-de-Lis Publishing," she explained, "each situated at one of the tables. They are happy to answer questions and accept manuscripts, but please do not monopolize their time. We want everyone to have a chance to talk with them."

At Tim's table was Marlene Jameson from Athena Publishing, but seeing as he already had a publisher he had little need for her. It was just as well because she was immediately bombarded by the other writers at the table, manuscript after manuscript pushed in her direction. Tim wondered how many of them would actually be read.

"What's wrong?" Penny asked him after she had all but flung hers and her husband's manuscript at the poor publishing representative.

"I was just trying to see if Myrna was here yet," he muttered, not wanting to go too far into detail with the nosy woman. He tilted his chair back, straining his neck out to see who was seated at the table on the other side of the room.

Penny shoveled a forkful of her salad into her mouth. "Oh, she left!" the woman exclaimed, droplets of ranch dressing spewing from her mouth as she chewed and talked at the same time. "I saw her checking out late last night."

"Last night?" he asked skeptically. "She was really tired when we got to her room. Said she was going to slip into bed and go to sleep."

"Must have gotten a second-wind. I stopped to get some details out of her, but she didn't say much. She looked like she wasn't pleased to see me, but I guess that's just because she was in a hurry to get out of here."

He slumped in his seat, a pronounced frown reading all over his face. She had left and she hadn't even said good-bye.

"Are you going to eat that tomato?" Penny asked as she simultaneously reached over and scooped the item from his plate. Tim didn't protest.

"You can have it," he muttered as she munched away. He wasn't that hungry anymore.

* * *

"I trust you enjoyed your stay," the hotel clerk said cheerily as Tim handed over his room key. Obviously the young man hadn't yet heard the news of the previous night's events. "Will you be needing any other services?"

"No, thank you," he said glumly. The weekend was shaping up to be far different than he'd expected, and not necessarily in a positive way.

The clerk replaced the key and returned with an envelope. "This letter was left for you."

Tim took it curiously. The envelope read _Thom/Tim_ in cursive and a poorly drawn sad face in the top corner. "Thank you," he said absently as he grabbed his bag and moved away from the desk. Inside the envelope he found a hastily written note on a bit of hotel stationary:

_After you dropped me off at my room, I did just as I said I would. I pushed the mess off onto the floor and slipped into bed. But I couldn't sleep. I was restless and anxious and I knew I just wanted to get home. For me to want my craphole apartment more than a luxurious (and now free!) hotel room meant something was really wrong and I'm not one to question my instincts. After packing my things, I only stopped long enough to write this. I didn't want to leave without some kind of a good-bye._

_You were the only worthwhile thing in this convention, so I'm glad the trip was an entire bust for me. I hope the feeling is mutual. _

_Take Care,_

_Myrna_

He hadn't any idea what to make of the note. There was no mention of a continued relationship, nor was there any insinuation that they would see each other again. It was neither an invitation for nor a declination of a romance. It was a good-bye and nothing else.

It left him unsure of what to expect with the illustrious Myrna. He had a feeling, though, that they had not seen the last of each other…

* * *

**AN:** There's one more chapter left! Again, thank you to all of my readers!


	21. Chapter 21

Myrna opened the sheet of paper which she had carefully slipped between the pages of one of her newly purchased books. It had been fortuitous that she had taken the page out of her grandfather's journal at all. When Nathan had told her about the map, though, she had decided not to take any chances. If they wanted the money, they would have no choice but to include her. If they didn't, then she wouldn't give them the key to the translations. In the end, though, there had been no "they;" there had been only her.

She winced as she recalled the previous nights. No one was supposed to have gotten hurt, let alone killed. She had been sorry to hear about Nathan's and Julie's deaths, especially when it came to light that both of their deaths had been because of the map. Then seeing Tim take that blow to the head…well, it was probably as painful for her to see as it was for him to experience. She hadn't realized just how determined that hotel janitor had been to get that journal.

Green had been a mistake from the start, though. Even though she hadn't met him – at least not prior to being held by him at gunpoint – she'd gotten the idea that he was a loose cannon. His rash actions were proof of that. If he hadn't killed Nathan, they probably would have had no troubles. Even if Nathan had been apprehensive at first, Julie would have been able to convince him to continue with the plan eventually. Because of Green, though, NCIS had become involved and had almost ruined everything for them. Lucky thing the elder Pfc. Robinson had shown the map to Randy Veux as a work of fiction years ago. That tidbit of information had effectively stopped the investigation before it even began, giving her complete freedom to continue on with the plan.

The hardest part in all of this had been cutting ties with Tim. She had liked Tim a lot. She had hoped their relationship would go further. But that was before she had found out who – or rather _what_ – he really was. As much as she liked him, she couldn't involve herself with a federal agent. It was too risky. She had to let him go, at least for the time being. Perhaps they could rekindle their relationship at a later time.

With the key on the table before her, Myrna removed the map she had managed to swipe from Lambard before Green had arrived and murdered the woman. She had dropped by prior to visiting the book store, feeling it was necessary to speak with Lambard about Green's murdering Robinson and how detrimental his actions had been to their plans. The women had agreed he had to go. Turns out, though, that Lambard was the one to go.

She placed the two of them side by side, her lips twitching into a smile. There it was. She had both the lock and the key and the two were now coming together, clicking open her chance to do away with crummy research papers and poorly made school projects. No more whining students and crappy pay. From now on, it would be smooth sailing.

She had to admit that the idea of splitting the treasure one way was far more appealing than splitting it four ways...

* * *

**The End!**

**AN:** A final thank you to all of my readers/reviewers! I hope you enjoyed the story!


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